The Pigeon Hermitage
Lenk-Timur came — a fiend, a butcher;With him — fire and sword, with him — grief and weeping;
No serpent-dragon squeezed us with its coils —
Our tribe was taken captive by the foe.
On the shore where Sevan breathes with mist,
By the lake’s ripples he set his camp —
Where, with a soul soaring to the God of strength,
A holy monastery guards our land.
In those times, in the hermitage — protector of Armenians —
Lived the venerable hermit monk, Hovhan,
Praying day and night for his native people,
For the baptized folk, for the pagan kin.
When Hovhan learned from within his cloistered walls
Of the evil Tatars’ raid, the Christian captivity,
He grew fiercely angry, deeply grieved,
That Satan held such sway over men.
The gray-haired monk did not finish his prayers,
Seized his staff — and out through the holy gates he went.
Muttering, he walked where the path led.
In a trance — toward the surface of the turquoise waters:
Sevan splashed, but with its silver dew
It dared not touch his bare feet,
As the heathen prince saw this.
The frail grass trembled, bowing low,
He howled, he wailed from the steep height:
“Do not be angry, return, holy man!
Return to your home in peace!” — So pleaded the khan;
Hovhan turned his steps back to the monastery.
As soon as he leaned his staff on the dry shore,
The enemy bowed to the saint:
“Take from me what you will, old man,
A treasury of gold, or a decree of power!”
“You cannot buy me with a decree or gold,
Release, return to me my people!
Let them go where they wish, without hindrance,
Singing the free song of life!
Is there no room in the heavens
For God’s birds? Is the world too narrow?”
The evildoer replied: “I will give as many souls
As can enter the monastery’s church,
Now go, old man, and bear no grudge!”
And he ordered at once from one wing
To lead the captive crowd into the hermitage:
As many as the church could hold, so many would be freed.
The fearsome guards left their posts;
The people flowed like a river,
Following the saint through one wing:
A hundred thousand entered the small hermitage —
Yet not even one narthex was filled.
The heathen thief marveled at the wondrous sight,
Shouted to his guards,
Ordered more captives to be released.
A throng of people surged, poured into the church —
The number surpassed countless multitudes:
Still the hermitage was not full, still it called for guests;
And the human stream flowed on and on.
Now for the third time Lenk-Timur cried out,
Ordered the remaining captives to be freed.
The last came, and row after row —
All entered the church. The savage gaze
Of the cruel foe swept the surrounding mountains:
No captives remained, as if they had vanished. And the cathedral stood empty.
The khan was horrified: “Is this reality or a dream?
Search the hermitage! Find their trail!”
The envoys entered the holy refuge:
There was Hovhan alone; on his knees —
His eyes raised to the heavens — as if rooted to the earth;
His beard wet with abundant tears.
As many Armenians as entered the small hermitage,
Hovhan had turned them all into doves —
Having prayed for such grace from heaven —
And into their native valleys, into their native forests
He released the birds to the open skies:
All found refuge in the inaccessible mountains.
They all flew away — and the alarm subsided,
And the monk stood alone, in prayer.
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