Death of the writer

My most recent love is a literary critic
and in forming an opinion on a writer
he looks at the reactions of others
to avoid making mistakes with his own.
Like all of his colleagues,
he likes big writers,
since in praising them
he is less likely to make a mistake.
In order to be worth his praise,
a writer must also be dead,
since about the dead,
it is acceptable to say
either something good or nothing at all,
and an exalting speech could also
be considered a sorrowful eulogy.
The dead writer is also convenient
in that he will not sprout from underground
and will not burden your soul's delicate strings
with all the weight
of his dusty and shaking body,
requesting that you prove your word with action:
give him homage with food and drink
or a 500 dram loan.
Like his colleagues, deep within his soul,
my love hates writers,
and for him, the big dead writers
are just a way to demonstrate
the smallness of the living ones.
He writes articles
reviews, editorials,
bestowing glory posthumously
on the big dead writers
with his breast defending their writing,
which no one has either
the courage or desire to attack.
Concerning women,
not one of that gender's representatives
has managed to be in his view;
all of the great writers are men –
greatness is generally not fit for a woman
and death does not become her.
Yet I, leaving work and responsibilities behind,
fry verse for him day and night,
although I know that he will not notice me that way
since I am still a woman and I do not have the Nobel.
The road to his heart
passes through the Pantheon.

 translated by Knar Hovakimyan