Homesick for your own land you left the university and splendor of Europe and traveled singing songs of home. You left singing “I go to the provinces of the sun, the fountain of light.” All the time it was you who was the light, the light you called “Blodstream of nature, the gown of day.” It was April, an ironic April of flowers reeking of death, not perfume, an April with the hyena panting in wait while you started out for “the founfain of light.” They say your eyes were dug, your laborer’s heart torn out. They say the light was eaten by the beast that day, but light cannot be consumed, Daniel. The news of your martyrdom plunged the living into anguish and drove the sane Gomidas into eternal mad silence. But over and over again mothers christen sons with your name, Varoujan, for the sake of your work dipped in light and for the sake of the dawn you foresaw. Daniel, Daniel, it is crimson in the east. Daniel, your light is here.