Poetry
Vazha Pshavela – The Sword’s Complaint
Rust adorns thee, sword, and mould’ring Is thy scabbard once so fine. Where’s thy master’s arm of iron, Where’s that flashing gleam of thine?’ “On the fatal plain of Shamkor, He fell dead, with many a wound, And his blood flowed like a torrent, Dyeing red the battle ground. Though he fell beneath the struggle With the deadly enemy, Valiant were his deeds and dauntless. Matchless was his bravery Foremost was he in the battle, Smiting, hewing down the foe. Georgia and a soldier’s honour Made him bear the crushing blow. A coward’s hand has hung me useless Here to rust in endless night. Georgia has become a market Cursed and doomed by venal blight! I, who proudly fought for freedom, Now am pawned or sold for gold, A bartered thing to crown the downfall Of my country’s pride of old. Many years have passed since Georgia’s Son did whet me till I flashed, Rendered sharp my blade so deadly, And with me to battle dashed. Nor have I heard sounds of trumpets, Nor the shouts of victory… I have passed an age thus hanging Here in rust and slavery.” |
