My turn shall also come:I sense the spreading of a wing.

Where to start?Everything cracks and shakes,The air trembles with similes,No one world’s better than another;the earth moans with metaphors.

I do not know how it is elsewhere, but here, in this country, poetry is a healing, life-giving thing, and people have not lost the gift of being able to drink of its inner strength....

Only in Russia poetry is respected–it gets people killed.

One cannot launch a new history — the idea is altogether unthinkable; there would not be the continuity and tradition. Tradition cannot be contrived or learned. In its absence one has, at the best, not...

The Armenian language cannot be worn out; its boots are stone. Well, certainly, the thick-walled word, the layers of air in the semi-vowels.

The people need poetry that will be their own secretTo keep them awake forever,And bathe them in the bright-haired wave of its breathing.

The earth is buzzing with metaphor