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The poets rustle in the woods of verses.
All the seasons are green: they glow…
Some carry rifles across their shoulders,
Some make arrows for the Cupid’s bow.
The only weapon attracting one’s mind
Is a word - divine, winged, and refined.
Many lose their way in the forest;
Here’re wolves, grams, Red-Riding-Hoods.
Eternal comedies and dramas
Are played on the stage of the woods.
In spite of being brave hunters,
At moonless night, we seek hunters’ huts,
And, if you ever fail to find them,
Don’t break, beforehand, your heart…
The breeze brings the smell of smoke,
You hear the crackle of dry twigs,
Near the slope, at the waterfall, the bonfire
Temptingly waves its wings.
Here, we’ve come! Here’s the bonfire.
Winds fall, the moon and stars rise.
Don’t fret, warm yourself, cheer up,
Amuse each other with witty rhymes.
Funny stories, strange events
Make you laugh and… fill you with regret.
And if the flight of fancy amazes you,
Encourage the Don Quixotes, don’t fret!
The Greek Diana, our Georgian Dali…
Don’t scold them for their bad luck…
The hearts and souls of these goddesses
Are filled with divine sparks.
7.14.08.
Tsira Gogeshvili
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Tsira Gogeshvili
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