The poet’s harbor is his own dream.
Grief fusses about, life’s short-lived…
A sinner always sins with a sinner,
And a skirt waves in the wind.
The lonely string, the single string is torn.
The poet heals his wounds: mourns over the past.
He craves for the future with arduous words,
Tomorrow is his hope and lust.
19.O5.2OO3.
Translated from Georgian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem