Ravil Bukharayev
Pitsunda
The roaring sea
gnaws into the shore at the feet of Pitsunda.
Was it not here that Jason dragged up his boat
for the grief of a woman?Was it not here, not able to fight with anguish,
sobered from passion,
that the witch Medea
gnawed Jason’s flesh?She tasted blood, love and shame,
smeared her tears.
She flung her covering over there
where the roses grew ripe . . .The covering lay on a mountain spur,
on the even dales.
And the Abkhazian bees
drink the matured rose like a brain.
Translated by Richard McKane
Page(s) 66
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