I feel like singing and I sing,‐
I have three wounds on my heart:
thinking about the past troubles me,
There’s nothing given in the present
and thoughts of the future
no one has shared with me!
wrapped in mists,
the star barely flickers,
I can’t take my eyes off it,
seeing it once.
persisting in watching it
I became culpable.
but in the heart the ulcer grows,
chokes my soul, grieves me,
I don’t desire death,
although torture reminds me of death,
and my being that way
reminds me of poor Amirani.
the sword lies next to him, the pooch too
devotedly gnawing iron;
the sword does not come to the hero,
nor is he able to reach it himself,
the gnawed chain is also intact,
he sees the next morning;
torturing fire burns
the master and his pug:
the future’s ray of hope dispels
the hero’s moans and groans.
translated from Georgian into English by Lela Jgerenaia
from ‘Translations from World Literature’
Friday, May 29, 2009