Selected poems 3 Guram Kikabidze

THE PATH
I fall asleep in a state of quiet bliss,
the world unfolding its embrace before my eyes.
The Lord has covered me with pages
as autumn covers the earth with leaves — with flowers.
At the crossroads He scattered poems at my feet.
But I chose my way:
to serve through action,
to see with open eyes —
until I understood: the path is myself.
I am the road dissolving into clouds.
One day my “I” will slip from its rails
and the train will rise,
carried straight into the sky.
I am the path.
A gatherer of edelweiss.
The one who remains after God.
A road without fear, without love, without money.
A reality untouched by triumph or defeat.
An undiscovered island.
The first shore
toward which one sails without battle.
The One in the clouds
who gave me poems through sleepless nights
whispered only: Act.
And for that I worshiped Him.
“Live,” He said. “Do not perform.
Walk your own road.
Someday, somewhere,
we will meet and shake hands.
We will stand together
and watch the city sink into mist,
lightly powdered with snow-clouds,
and feel the soul grow weightless
circling above it —
in winter, as snowflakes, as words.”
WHERE THE SKY MEETS THE SEA
Where sky collides with sea
and shatters itself on stone —
there is the finest place
for death to dance.
Within the roaring, spinning fury
there lives a strange nostalgia:
the innocence of a dove
and the wisdom of a serpent.
Salt-eaten rocks,
gnawed and worn by centuries.
At night the spirit of Lekala wanders there,
while the ocean hurls its storming walls
against the shore.
Under a cloudless sky
the stars are not beautiful —
they are true.
Not Mozart’s music,
but the song of a wild soul.
The waves bring sorrow
when you live too long among them —
for you are a sailor
and you have sailed too far.
You once bought from death
a single cup of life — and drank it.
Since then you burn
like a lighthouse lit by the sun,
like its bright pennant in the wind.
Your face is calm,
lit by a secret thought.
And if no bridge spans soul and death,
still there remains a difference
between death and life.
It is this:
the sun’s bees,
drinking wisdom and strength,
drain to the last drop
the nectar of a flower
we never planted.
THE LIGHTEST BOAT
When night descends
the sky here is scattered
with billions of burning lights,
and birds begin their spring concerto.
When night descends
the air is thick with the freshness
of wild forests and fields,
and God sends me
His envelope.
Inside it — life.
It sways backward,
then forward again,
as if learning motion.
And my lightest boat,
cutting through the constellations,
moves silently on.
ON THE VERTICAL
Toward the shining horizon,
toward the silver seam of sea,
you rush.
You will walk your path —
falling, rising, falling again —
asking nothing
from the rat-catcher of fate.
You will cling to air,
grasp at flying manes,
drive the white-maned horses
in their furious circle of years,
like a shadow trailing Saint Magdalene.
Like an angel stepped out of a painting,
uneasy in this dim world
where endless winters
replace one another
and lose count of time.
Like father and son
learning the shape of death —
only to discover
it cannot reach you,
cannot find you
once you have befriended life.
And somewhere a voice keeps whispering:
I know.
I know.
I know.
BLUE FIRE
As grape chacha burns with a pale blue flame,
so burned the hearts of those
who fought for freedom.
As crown fires race through forest tops,
so the earth burns
beneath the feet of tyrants.
As the eternal flame burns on a soldier’s grave,
so the sun scorches living skin.
As lovers burn in the dark of night,
so summer stars ignite the field,
touching with invisible fire
the souls of mystics.
As the northern bonfire glows in forest darkness,
so a harsh cigarette burns
in the hand of a wanderer.
As a wolf’s eyes flare
when it scents its prey,
so flare the souls of poets
who have lost love.
As a lamp burns in a wooden hut
and insects rush toward its light,
so saints burn —
with the bluish flame
of grape chacha.