Letter

When

you are so far and so near,

it is difficult to write.

I’m writing to you,

it’s allowed, here and now

to inhale deeply

and to exhale deeply.

The air is gentle and fills you,

the word itself, silky and amenable.

I’m writing to you,

and at the same time,

I feel unable to set what I say in stone

so I’m sending in fresh.

I’m writing:

I’m counting:

hours, minutes,

I hurry, I tidy,

I open and close

days, nights,

people.

I told you, I’m in hurry,

I can’t keep it secret

that I’m in such a hurry,

let it be you end me,

just you and me and the town,

which will save us from the eyes of others.

For several nights already

I sleep with you,

I wake up with you,

and I hide you at the same time

because I frighten myself -

in reality it is only the desire to have you next to me

that is lying next to me.

My hand have ended up empty so often

when I think of you and desire you

so much that an egg would fry on my palms

and I who paid a debt of love,

would look at you with a stare from within me,

which I hade,

which I know

will one day betray me.

Sometimes I think

there’s a hole in the ozone over my head,

which does not close

and demands as a sacrifice

my hands left up in the air,

in order to have you next to me and yet not to have you.

I’m writing to you,

I am setting in order our time together,

for the long road,

for the town where they say,

dreams come true on Christmas Eve.

I am writing to you,

and at the same time confessing that I’m afraid

of being killed by you,

without you making me believe in love.

მთარგმნელი:Natalia Bukia-peters and Victoria Field