Poems

Our Braille

Purple,
Red,
yellow,
green, golden
if he asked for colours,
if he went begging  from one tube station to another.  ( play of words- itkhovdes- asking; matkhovrobde- begging)
( from my old poem)
(to  Zaza who can see
And to all blind people)
White- this is more sound- probably flute,
It is collapsed, careful, it is steep, you may swing
-the sounds of frost pierces us-
Not the sparrows but they(sounds) swing the colourful parrots
The ice perch-
Twenty cats of my neighbour- the whole orchestra
Miaows – and this is already yellow, the moon is full
With our electric flowers- the lights in the houses
How the dawn breaks
The sky was smeared in cherry mousse
Black- not a single sound is heard
We sleep or we die,
The floor creaks carefully ( quietly)
It seems it has become grey,
Blue- the wave on the hot feet,
The breathing has calmed down,
And the wind has hidden in its robe the wing of dust and ashes.
The red- lava and one hundred volts, French horns,
Trombones, tubas,
The orchestra plays them all together,
Your fingers near my stomach-green,
And as for blue-
Before the dawn breaks in gold let’s manage to kiss each other…
You ask me- what is better: to get blind or
Or deaf.
I ask you it is better to get blind or better to get
Deaf.
You answer me: your thousand colour lakes have dried out,
I answer you: your thousand colour fields have got dried,
And then the glance has  flashed (gadabrialda)
It is my fault( bralia) this braille
It is your fault ( brali)

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