Death of My Grandmother
Besik Kharanauli
International Poetry Review, Greensboro, NC
Tbilisi, 2005
Mark Smith-Soto
Dominik Irtenkauf
Electronic Version
Georgian in Seattle
Spring, 2009
Georgian in Seattle. Non-commercial Use Permitted, With Attribution
besik xaranauli
leTa, daviwyebis mdinare
roca beboCemi leTas gadadioda,
roca jer kidev
ar Seedga fexi mdinareSi,
roca jer kidev ar iyo gons mosuli, radganac wylispiras
nariys wamosdo
kabis kalTa da waborZikda,
magram Zveli CveulebiT,
romelic imas sicocxleSi mudam gamarTuls atarebda
Tavi Seimagra
gasworda da
ise Sedga fexi mdinareSi.
wyali grili iyo, Txeli iyo wyali.
gaRma napirze ki tye iwyeboda
da yvelaferi
ise nacnobi iyo misTvis,
rom giafiqra:
iors xom ar mivtopavo,
Zroxis saZebnelad xom ar mivdivaro
wyalgaRma tyeSi.
mas Cemsken ar gamouxedavs,
me Tvalebi dabinduli mqonda
da ver davinaxe,
rogor gavida gaRma napirs
da burusma rogor dafara.
im qveyanaSi
roca beboCemi saiqioSi Cavida,
mas miegebnen naTesavi sulebi
movidnen tyviiT dakodilni,
saxadiT mkvdarni
daxocilebi vin RalatiT
da vin kidev siyvarulis sawamlaviTa.
marto qvrivi nato ar mosula
beboCemis Sesagebeblad,
radganac axlac,
rogorc sicocxleSi,
ar ecala zeimebisTvis,
radganac axlac,
rogorc sicocxleSi,
tyeSi iyo Turme wasuli
da Tavisi oblebisTvis
fiCxs agrovebda.
Besik Kharanauli
Lethe, The River of Forgetfulness
When my grandmother was crossing the Lethe,
When she hadn’t yet stepped into the river
And hadn’t yet regained consciousness
as she had lost her footing, from washed ashore driftwood
hooked on the hem of her skirt
by force of her old habit
which made her walk straight
she strengthened herself, drew herself up
and thus stepped into the river.
The water was cool, the water was soft
The forest was stretched along the river bank
And everything was so familiar to her
That she started to think:
Am I crossing the Iori River
Am I still going to look for my lost cow
In the forest across the river?
She has not even glanced at me
My eyes all darkened in tears
I am unable to see,
Her crossing to the other shore,
Disappearing
Vanishing into the mist.
Afterlife
When my Grandmother arrived in the afterlife
She was met by kindred spirits:
Those who had died either by a bullet,
Or passed away by black death,
Deceased either by betrayal
Or even poisoned by love
Only Nato the widow has not come
To meet my grandma,
Because even now she seemed too busy
Even here to join in the feast
As in her own life -
Even here
She could be found in the forest
Collecting brushwood
For her orphans.