Georgian version here
Your Cottage Where the Woods Begin
And now before my eyes I find
your cottage, where the woods begin,
And this night like a river, winds
into an azure opening.
Sisters proferring with roses
whisper such sweet haunting words:
“You’re such a noble,” one proposes.
“You are a poet,” the next avers.
And in this fashion July passes,
every second, every hour,
City of Tbilisi: anxious
kingdom of the troubadour.
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