By Terenti Graneli (1897–1934)
Translated from the Georgian by Mariam Kiparoidze and Gautama Mehta

I write this on a night with wind,
Drops of rain on the glass,
Tears of a grand piano, distant.
I remember my hurricane days.

The shiver of regret walks into me
And joy to be Terenti Graneli.
A chasm before me, black fog all around.

Since the land was born I’ve been walking
Toward light, looking for sun.
I guess I’m drawn to distant things, things I can’t see.

I showed up early.
Now I come near the darkness again, the sea
In which my body will drown.

Each night brings thoughts of death and distance. I feel afraid.
I think: there will be a moment when I’m not alive.
I think: I am immortal.

The poetry said somewhere distant there is the blue country of immortality,
Where the soul mourns and flies.
On a hurricane night I want to be somewhere else.

The poetry knows how to bring sudden joy = fly away.
I didn’t want life or death. I wished for elsewhere.
I’m thinking: I believe in the third way, the mystery.

I’m still the mourning seraph at the edge of all time, with no sound,
Waiting for the shadow of Christ to deliver me from these trials,
I believe in life without body.

With my words I address the world.
I want to fly away.
I want to be everywhere like God.

Like a child I am stuck on this sinful land.
I can’t get off the mud that is called ground.
No life, no death, something else.

I’m saying: words do not name feelings.
There is still the hurricane,
Drops of rain on the glass,
Tears of the grand piano, distant.