Lela Samniashvili

Imagine me, sending a puff of smoke skyward,
Thinking
I would write you a letter
Even tonight.
...

My soul is married to fire.
Black is a bandage to my lips and breath.
I’m keeping the bread near my heart - an explosive –
You sowed in my rocky earth, - stroking it with my fingers
...

Throughout two weeks – I had you on my back –

weighty with your statue – I would drag
...

'My hand got tired in your grip' –
My thought is sounding like a sudden betrayal, like:
'I can't lock up myself in my homeland'.
...

The sheep bow down their heads on blades of grass
Through pastures of the days or of the shades
Of their own heads, of their simple fuss
About the grass, that leads and feeds and fades.
...

I bid goodbye to the tourists,
Backpackers in T-shirts trailing to their knees,
Sipping soda from cans, they pass by
Posing for pictures against props of the past.
...

With each string, stitch and bead
I try to imagine how beautiful she was –
The woman, the dress she wore –
Suspended - delicately silver-white -
...

An old Christmas-tree – light green – with the cotton balls –
Scattered on it – at the end of the May – hurryingly -
I’ve brought so near to my face: The Earth.
...