Sieved fine, the snow sifts down tonight
drifts down strand by strand.
It is a good time to talk of the past
and reach out for your hand.
It's sweet to sit here in the dusk
not begrudging hours slipped by,
not fearing the dawn creeping up,
hiding in the eastern sky.
I don't feel time rushing on,
but sit un-clocked and slow,
hearing, like old lullabies,
your soft words fall like snow.
translated from the Armenian
by Diana Der-Hovanessian