Molba
He was bound with a rope tight,
Before he managed to draw his sword.
Beaten up and thrown on the straw,
He, like a corpse, is lying by the door.
We fear death,
But whenever there is a chance
To see the other’s end in full,
To the execution one would prance
And just enjoy it, a stupid fool.
Oh, how many monsters do I know
Who have only sin as their worth,
Yet they emit of innocence a glow
And walk in peace on our earth.
What does Zviadauri really want
As he whispers many an indistinct word?
The Khevsur’s blood is running hot,
But in his hand there’s no sword.
Yes, it is your day of luck.
Alas, you’ve got me in your hole.
Already the people in the dark
Drag him somewhere with a frenzied
howl.
It’s time for the murderer obscene
To go down to the dark of coffin.
And please the dead by fetching them in
The water, to the otherworldly din,
Or weave the sandals for them from
bark.
There’s a gloomy hill in the village’s
enclaves,
Burnt by the sun to the very ground.
There, lying deep in their graves,
Sleep lionhearted bodies under a mound.
The water washed their remains,
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