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IT IS RAINING, SON By Vahan Tekeyan Translated by Khatchig Mouradian It is raining, son, the autumn is wet, Just like the damp eyes of poor beguiled love, Go and shut the door, close the window too Then come to my side, let's sit together In silence supreme. It is raining, son, Does it sometimes rain in your soul as well? Does your heart get cold? And do you shiver When you think about the bright, bygone sun At one of the blocked doors of destiny? Yet you weep, my son. All of a sudden, I see heavy tears falling from your eyes. Weep irretrievable tears of innocence, Weep without knowing, my poor unwise son You poor victim of life, weep so that you grow. -- Khatchig Mouradian has a B.S. in Biology and currently is a graduate student in Clinical Psychology. He has been writing poetry from an early age and around two dozens of his poems (in Armenian) have been published in a Armenian newspapers and magazines (Aztag, Zartonk, and Ardziv). He is also a journalist with his columns and articles appearing regularly in "Aztag" daily and "Marzig" monthly.