Over the steppe, past Karbada
Where partridges arise from the kurgans
I wake up again, resurrected,
Waiting in ambush outside Muxrani
And once more I inspect my weapons.
Along the rivers, Ksani and Aragvi,
Wheat that grows only in Georgia is greening,
And your lips have the sweetness of badagi,
Young Georgian wine in its first bubbling.
It was pheasant hunting time when I first saw you,
It was still then the summer of Rustaveli,
A summer that was all but over,
And I wish I had not drunk so much badagi
And I wish I had not just sharpened my sword.
From one steppe through another steppe, I chased you
Raising the dust on all the roads around.
I broke the locks on the gates of Mtskhetha.
Smashed temples, with their great candles, down!
But he who crushes must himself be crushed,
He who was once incarnate as a Kipchak.
When I met your husband he was wearing a helmet.
He split my head with a single chop.
Come, put your hands on my wound, embrace it.
I can’t see you, the outflow has emptied me,
Like blood from beef, steam from the cauldron
Or from the valley of Kartli, a rising mist.
Come,
It is I calling you after a thousand years,
Reduced to ashes by your body’s lightning.
Roses are opening again – it is our sign –
Our time has come for another meeting.
(Giorgi Leonidze)
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Based on Topics: Youth Poems, Past Poems, Summer PoemsBased on Keywords: partridges, outflow, kipchak, kartli