I feel light,
as if right before death
or maybe I’m already dead and writing.
Who can make sense of life?
I’ll just go out onto the balcony,
smoke a cigarette,
keep up the routine,
and act as if I’m alive.

And where is the quail,
in which grass is it hiding?
I have seen it flutter
on dry grass, then disappear somewhere,
with its wheat-colored  feathers
it hides in the fields,
so it won't end up
on the hunter's pan,
a target of his hunger.

We like this couple.
They kiss and tenderly embrace each other,
but we are very hungry.

Eternity ends for us when our time runs out,
when love dies with us.
We either turn to soil or to ashes,
yet somewhere, we will still exist
we cannot erase our trace.

Wife: Do you think the new purchase brings us closer?
Husband: Brings us closer?
Wife: Yes, that’s what I think the pleasure caused by buying something new.
Husband: Yeah, that’s true.
Wife: You’re a tight-lipped leech.
Husband: Don’t even heat it up.
Wife: Sometimes, you seem very beautiful to me.
Husband: Hahaha.
Wife: I miss the snow. Take me to Bakuriani.
Husband: Let’s go next year.
Wife: I’d go to the village, but nothing can warm up the cold rooms.
Husband: And the rats.
Wife: Hahaha.

We are most stripped bare
when we await catharsis.
Our hands weaken,
and our faces grow serene.
We are like the fragrant, blossoming flowers of spring
that soon wither,
yet their bulbs emerge again
to bloom anew in another spring's flowers.

You closed the black doors,
like a sealed temple
if such a thing exists.
You made your dwelling in various dark hearts,
slipped into a locked latch.
Dry leaves rustle under your feet in the silence of the night,
and like a stray dog,
you don’t know in whose house you’ll awaken.