leqsebi

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
They will hug the knees of strangers,
Crying “Mother, we are hungry.”
They push them away, replying
“Do you think we are your mothers?”
The tears of mothers left behind
Fall like raindrops on the children;
Dampened to the skin, the children
Cannot dry their clothing out.
Those little ones with aged parents
Are sheltered underneath their garments;
Those little ones who have no parents
Wander mutely shedding tears.
They have wept and sobbed so much
They no longer can draw breath.
The old people, gazing on them,
Burn with sorrow for their fate.
In the land of souls old people
Search for canes and walking sticks.
On each day of celebration
They have hope of sacrifices;
Those with none to pray for them
Must sit with their backs toward the table.
If someone should pray for them
It brings blessing on their souls.
I, the one who made this poem,
Am called K’obe Chak’oani.
Mirangula
Ot’! Alas, poor Mirangula,
You, your mother’s only child,
She had spoiled you in the tower,
They brought up your meals to you.
May Wednesday night be smeared with pitch!
They brought Mirangula’s supper,
Mirangula was not there:
He had gone to fight the Savs.
Mother looked out from the window:
There he stood, on Machkhpar mountain.
“Oh, your mother’s Mirangula,
All that could be done you’ve done,
This will be your final journey!”
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