By Moushegh Ishkhan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
The cover of a 1999 edition of Moushegh Ishkhan’s ‘Letter to Father Christmas,’ illustrated by Khoren Hagopian (Kilikia Publishing House; Aleppo)
Father Christmas,
This here letter—my very first—
I write to you
And hand it to your holy hand with ardor.
Wherever you are,
Surely, you will browse
And hit the road once more
On the familiar old path to our house.
I have not forgotten you—
How could I forget you?
Every night, when I sleep, suddenly
You come to me and conjure a big party,
And during the day, although
You take your leave,
You become a dream, sky and star,
With every heartbeat, I keep on hearing
Your footsteps from afar…
You must also recall me with yearning;
How many little boys like me
Can you find these days
Among all the children that you praise…?
Don’t believe those false rumors
Spread by birds about me;
I am a model for all to see,
The most modest and the best,
And most deserving of all
To your wonderful, colorful bounty…
In the name of your boundless glory
And your glorious beard,
I always make good promises
To my loving parents, as many as they ask!
That crying boy is not me,
Grandpa, but that worthless Satan,
That I chase out of sight
And I turn all smiles, become total light!
Mother says, this year,
May you bring me
Some spirit, some brains and grace,
But don’t listen to her—you see,
I have so much grace and brains,
That I give them away for free…!
In your mysterious basket
Pile up soon for me
Candy, dry fruit, and countless toys.
Father Christmas,
Come as soon as you’re free—
I have no more fear, I love you now!
Pay no heed to my rambling words,
My colorless face and shaky steps.
Extend your hand with confidence
To my flaming lips—
As long as you extend it brimming full,
I shall kiss it, have no doubt,
I can even sing for you
And will not touch one hair of your beard…
When you visit us, bringing the feast of Yuletide,
Don’t you forget, also,
Our neighbors Diko, Maro, and Garo,
Who send you many a hello,
And with whom I share fights and mayhem
And also play with them.
My father says Massis is the sole great gift,
That you can someday bring to Armenian kids,
In which there is everything—
Shiny star and golden moon
An ever-flaming fire,
Husky hounds standing guard,
Olden heroes kept in chains
And raging stallions…
Father Christmas, I want that Massis,
Put some wheels under it
And drive it straight to our house,
Bring me that lofty gift.
Oh, have no fear, I won’t break it,
I’ll keep it next to my heart,
As a caring angel
And crowned head, almighty ruler.
They say, that every year it’s from Massis
That you arrive—
Your hair has turned to cotton and snow
In its eternal snows.
Alas, you are so old,
Bent over, shaky beneath your load—
You can no longer, alas,
Walk erect and proud, like young pioneers
And are always late, like this.
Why do you go from house to house in stride
And do not soar or ride
In a plane, or car?
God the Father, Father Christmas, Father Pastor,
Sometimes not there, at times there,
You are with us, and in the clouds without trace—
I still cannot tell apart
Your enormous countenance—
But I think you are the best among them,
Generous and a good ways above,
That’s why, you see, to you I send
My first letter, with love…
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