* * *

The dark of night is lying on the Georgian hills;
Before me churns Aragva’s chatter.
I’m sad and languid; melancholy’s brightness spills;
Of you, my sorrow’s brooding matter,
Of you, of you alone… My sadness can’t be touched
By tortured spirit’s agitation,
My heart again is burning and by passion clutched –
From love there is no liberation.