Nothing seems to happen… at all!
Neither humiliation nor rows!
The day is tender, and the sun
Makes dizzy the rock-rose…
The fruit of our labor seems trifling,
But we’ve devoted to that labor ourselves…
Yes! Each man knits his own net.
Some spin a cocoon, some make traps…
Some set the traps – for themselves…
17.11.2OO2.
Translated from Georgian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi Janri, thanks for sending comments about my poem, i really appreciate. i read your poem and really liked it. its true Man is an artitect of his own fortune. God has given us the same amount of time everday. it is up to us what we want to do in it. take care seema