I got accustomed to being tired.
It’s like having a live wolf on my back
And feeling him there like a simple schoolbag.
His howl makes my shoulders tingle
As if stroked with a soft paintbrush.
All colour will turn to grey and calm
And it will stop like a storm.
This circular smile,
This artificial nest
Will be washed out of my face.
Even if my fingers are stuck in the door
And my bones are broken
I won’t step aside.
They bring in the days,
They take out the days
And I stay on the same spot.
My mother died at this door,
I lived next to this door in many other countries,
And I gave birth to my children here,
Here, at the door you closed.
Maia Sarishvili (born 1968) Georgia
Translated by Gvantsa Abdaladze
Source: Laboratory of Translation Georgian Literature