Poetry
Vazha Pshavela – The Eagle
In haughty pride, though wounded sore, An eagle fought the raven-crow. The bird in desperation strove To rise but fell in frenzied woe. His right wing swept the blood-stained ground; His bosom shone in crimson glow. “Alas! you smite, O ravens wild, When I am wounded, fallen low. Were I not struck, your feathers black Would surely deck the plains below!” |
