THE KNIGHT IN THE PANTHER’S SKIN

***** Rustaveli (c. 1160-1250), often called simply Rustaveli, was a Georgian poet who is generally considered to be the preeminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age. “The Knight in the Panther's Skin” or “The Man in the Panther’s Skin” is considered to be Georgia’s national epic poem and until the 20th century it was part of every Georgian bride’s dowry. It is believed that Rustaveli served Queen Tamar as a treasurer or finance minister and that he may have traveled widely and been involved in military campaigns. Little else is known about his life except through folk tradition and legend.

The Knight in the Panther's Skin
by ***** Rustaveli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

excerpts from the PROLOGUE

I sing of the lion whose image adorns the lances, shields and swords
of our Queen of Queens: Tamar, the ruby-throated and ebon-haired.
How dare I not sing Her Excellency’s manifold praises
when those who attend her must bring her the sweets she craves?

My tears flow profusely like blood as I extol our Queen Tamar,
whose praises I sing in these not ill-chosen words.
For ink I have employed jet-black lakes and for a pen, a flexible reed.
Whoever hears will have his heart pierced by the sharpest spears!

She bade me laud her in stately, sweet-sounding verses,
to praise her eyebrows, her hair, her lips and her teeth:
those rubies and crystals arrayed in bright, even ranks!
A leaden anvil can shatter even the strongest stone.

Kindle my mind and tongue! Fill me with skill and eloquence!
Aid my understanding for this composition!
Thus Tariel will be tenderly remembered,
one of three star-like heroes who always remained faithful.

Come, let us mourn Tariel with undrying tears
because we are men born under similar stars.
I, Rustaveli, whose heart has been pierced through by many sorrows,
have threaded this tale like a necklace of pearls.

Keywords/Tags: ***** Rustaveli, Georgia, Georgian, epic, knight, panther, skin, queen, Tamar, praise, praises, Tariel, Avtandil, Nestan-Darejan

Strange Skeleton Knight
Why do you fight?

You're so fragile
Yet you take on my burdens without being asked
Why must you be so eager to die on my behalf?

Don't you deserve to live too?

Mr Skeleton Knight
Why don’t you cry?

You never make a sound
Yet your sadness echoes deafeningly
Do your bones not feel cold out in the dark?
Does not being able to shed tears make you unable to release your sadness?

Can I cry on your behalf?

Sir Skeleton Knight
What did you do with your heart?

Did you tear it out to stop yourself from feeling?
Did you give it away along with the rest of yourself?
Even someone without flesh and organs shouldn't look so empty inside
Why can't you get your heart back?

Can I give you mine instead?

Noble Skeleton Knight
Do you like the grave I've dug you?

I'm glad that you haven't buried yourself yet
But I'm sure you don't feel the same way
Then why don’t you let your soul rest?
Wouldn't the warm dirt hug you more than anyone else has?

I don’t think I can help you anymore.

Beloved Skeleton Knight
I’ve killed myself

I hope you don't think that your existence was a tragedy
Though in the end I never managed to make you feel alive even once
I’ve told them to bury me next to your grave
Promise me that you'll stay at my side
Atleast now we can be cold and empty together.

Why do you still look so sad?

let the swords clash
let the shields fall
hold strong, hold the line
and protect them all

let my blade be my guide
with my brothers by my side
though the battle may be ******
we will never back down
we will stand by each other
defending our crown

let pure water wash away
the remains of the ray
let it clear all but my conscience
as the moon shines brighter
as my shoulders bare, are weighted lighter
the chainmail as ***** as I feel
covered in blankets of blood

I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, I cannot deal
I cannot stop
I will fight until I drop

wash it away
wash it away
still, invisible scars remain
they stain
they stain
they stain

War is hell and battles
Are ****** and hard
Whether in flander's fields
Or spiritual plains,

As I sit scrubbing ocre
From my sword's flanks
Lest it's vitriol pit
My blade

I test the edge and run
An oilstone along to
Finesse away dullness,
And look around

At a post martial landscape
Littered with scorched scars Where demons were,
And shell holes whence

Came criticism and ungrateful
Viciousness and suspicion,
And realise for the ten Thousandth time

There is no victory in valour,
Nor glory in a battle won,
Just a grubby pause before
The next attack