138 years ago, on February 9, 1885 (new style), in the family of a village priest in the village of Gandza near Akhalkalaki was born an outstanding Armenian poet Vahan Teryan.
In 1899 Vahan entered Lazarev Institute of Oriental Languages in Moscow. Together with his friends Teryan publishes at the institute a handwritten newspaper "Nadezhda", where he not only writes editorials and editorials, but also heads the poetry department, where he publishes his poems under the pseudonyms of Shvin, Volo and others. In August 1906 Teryan enters Moscow University, the Department of Russian Language and Literature of the Faculty of History and Philology. Under the direct influence of the 1905-1907 revolution, he wrote the cycle of poems "Crown of Thorns", in which he glorifies the revolutionary fighters. On the night of December 3, 1906 Teryan's apartment was searched, he and a friend were arrested, but on December 13 he was released from custody. During this period Terjan wrote "Estonian Song", "Autumn Song", "Autumn Melody", "Miracle Girl", "Bury Me at Sunset", "Desire" and other poems. Teryan's poetry with its subtle lyricism, heartfelt emotion, exceptional musicality and richness of language is a major phenomenon in the history of Armenian literature.
In 1908 in Tiflis his first collection of poems "The Dreams of Twilight" was published. The collection was well received by Avetik Isahakyan and Hovhannes Tumanyan.
In 1910, in parallel with his studies at Moscow University, Terian edited and published the literary and artistic almanac "Garun" ("Spring"). In 1915. Maxim Gorky commissioned Terian to compile the "Armenian Collection," which was published in Moscow. In the same year he writes a patriotic cycle "The Land of Nairi".
Valery Bryusov translated a number of the poet's poems and called him "the most prominent figure" among the young poets of "Russian Armenia".
Vahan Teryan died on January 7, 1920, not one month before his 35th birthday from tuberculosis.
I hear the songs of Armenia again,
Songs that sound like sobs.
You can't understand them, stranger,
Nor can you, stranger, understand them.
They are sad, and sorrowful, and bitter,
They are monotonous, but how melodious,
To the heart burned with sorrow, they are akin,
To the spirit burnt by pain, they are familiar.
Our villages are poor, and everywhere.
Dark-skinned faces with sorrow in their eyes,
All our people are in hopeless distress,
All our life is a hopeless woe.
How can we not moan in our songs,
In songs that are so like sobs?
You can't understand them, stranger,
Nor will you, stranger, understand them.
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