leqsebi

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
And sometimes again her son
Was throwing the beast to the ground.
Each time she saw these dreams
She awoke, wet with tears.
And then she would think: without mother
No child enters this world.
It is likely that this leopard’s mother
Is grieving as sorely as I.
I will go, yes I will see her,
And bring her words of compassion.
She will tell her son’s story
And I will tell her of mine.
For he too is to be mourned
Cut down by a merciless sword.
The bride from Akhmeta
I was a woman from Akhmeta.
Oh, my goodness me,
For twenty-five years to a tailor
They apprenticed me.
Where the eye of the needle is
Remained a mystery.
So they prepared me for marriage.
I said, “this pleases me.”
I put on gobs of make-up
And colors without restraint;
Then I did my eyebrows
With black antimony paint.
The bridal party arrived;
I said “this pleases me.”
They played the shawms and tambours;
I danced abominably.
When I joined the round dance,
They beat time with a stick.
They brought me a fine brown horse:
I mounted it right quick.
I set my foot in the stirrup,
At a gallop I sped away.
I rode up to the church door:
“Bring me the priest, I say!
Hurry up, you dog-souled man,
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