The breeze blows, blows carelessly,
Bringing the aroma of wine,
And the wind of love and passion, too,
Blows in the soul and mind…
It blows in the soul of a middle-aged man,
And assaults the sails of desire.
“Oh, what if… oh, what if…” he thinks,
And his heart is filled with fire.
The middle-aged man cooled down his heart,
Plunged into thoughts, lowered his eyes:
“Oh, you grey, you grey-headed fool,
Come to the ground from the skies.”
The woman seemed to read his thoughts,
She smiled at him as if saying:
“Why have you locked up yourself, man?
You are not so old, not so grey.”
Perhaps she wanted to speak to him…
No, no, of earnings she thought…
And the man, too, thought just of profit,
So hard and cruel was their lot…
The middle-aged man’s wife was pregnant,
The seventh child is no laughing matter…
The market was lit up by roses,
By violets and glowing petals.
Just for a moment, he ventured to dream,
Just for a moment, he hoisted the sails.
Then he tore them down, and the passion
Was gone away with the gales…
The woman left, the fragrant woman…
The horse gnawed the bit at the plow…
And it seemed to the middle-aged man
That someone had stolen up to him,
And given him a kick – a hard blow…
The man looked about, he was all eyes,
Like a robber, like a dizzy outlaw.
Translated from Georgian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.