Vazha Pshavela – The Eagle

In haughty pride, though wounded sore,
An eagle fought the raven-crow.
The bird in desperation strove
To rise but fell in frenzied woe.
His right wing swept the blood-stained ground;
His bosom shone in crimson glow.
“Alas! you smite, O ravens wild,
When I am wounded, fallen low.
Were I not struck, your feathers black
Would surely deck the plains below!”


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