I am a barbarian, a Khazar, a Saracen.
Batterer of Roman walls, dynamite’s low rumble
Angrier than Rusudan, bowing, not humbled–
The ache of lost territories eats at my spleen.
Inside me you can hear the ancient blood ripple.
Cloud clusters part for me — Kakheti’s paps bared.
A risen moon’s corona encircles my head,
And before me the sun unrolls its carpet of purple.
The stigmata of bloodlines now bloom all over me,
Tribune of Parisian mobs, Prince of Kartvelians.
On all peaks Georgian banners are fluttering for me
And the sun is saddled for the march of ancestors.
My poetry’s well is a winemaker’s vat.
As if into golden must I pour my soul into poison.
Rimbaud’s twin, I love the comedy of dangerous passions.
My forefathers were Chavchavadze, Teimuraz.
A resurrected young roebuck, all antler and melancholy
I am the dark Never More of the last trolley.
(Giorgi Leonidze)
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Based on Topics: Passion Poems, Danger & Risk Poems, Twins Poems, Comedy PoemsBased on Keywords: dynamite, corona, georgian, resurrected, saracen, paps, unrolls, parisian, tribune, rimbaud, antler