Flee, Flee from Babylon (- გაიქეცი ბაბილონიდან!)

Hello? Can’t hear you,
your voice – comes and goes
network connection is lousy
the signal weak – I’m at the meeting.
Hold on, there’s a babel of voices
all talking at once – I can’t hear a word!
I’ll go outside.

I’m outside now and it’s just as bad here!
Tell me – I hear you
more clearly, but the line’s fading fast–
quick, say what you have to say,
“Flee, flee from Babylon!’’

The politician searches for the word,
then distorts the living word to
Logos, to function as a mask.
Then he breaks his word,
using it as a mere prop,
exhausting it like a whore in a brothel
handing over the lifeless corpse of words
to the new generation of politicians
to abuse as they wish.
But the word suffocated by politics
lives on in poetry

I’m from the city
where the hawk swooped on the pheasant
and the mayor on the budget,
where respectable citizens
flaunt excellent CVs
but haven’t so much as a line
of biography,
where they boast about despising
what others hold dear.

Here in Babylon, they forget
that you cannot have a dream romance
with the homeland;
the love of one’s homeland
is doomed to be unrequited
for, even should she return your love,
it is not you, but your tomb she loves.

Disrespect!

This is Babylon’s only value
and it’s all one-sided
because we, the city’s ancient inhabitants
are obliged to respond to disrespect
with respect.
Flee, flee from Babylon!

If everything is lawful,
freedom is in fetters.

The American dream was born
when, in the final scene of the Western,
the sheriff stood at the saloon door
like the full stop placed
at the end of a rebellious verse.

Since God missed out with Friedrich Nietzsche,
Nietzsche declared God to be dead.
This was the beginning
of the New Era
in which the lowly consider
the great to be dead.
and Salieri exulted in the death
of the Maestro.

Civil society is composed of those
who maintain their dignity
despite temptation.

Masses march in protest
brandishing the portraits of their heroes,
they brandish the portraits of their heroes
and shout, proud
to brandish the portraits of their heroes
as testament, so the crowd
brandishes the portraits of their heroes
like swords, and remains unbowed,
their target just one: society!

Flee, flee from Babylon!

Ukraine is under fire,
and Russia attacks the West;
while European military forces
waste time disputing sex,
the double-headed eagle’s gaze
sweeps over both East and West.

Flee, flee from Babylon,
ask Noah for help once again,
buy a last ticket for his Ark,
never mind if it’s second-class.
In today’s world
the only port still in operation
is that of Ararat.

Time is in chains –
wristwatches.
If I take off my Tissot
and throw it away
that won’t change the era.
So where to should I flee?
Babylon is all around us,
-No, I prefer to stay in Babylon,
and like a firefighter
I will rescue at least one kid from
the blazing furnace of the godless.

P.S. four knocks on Mahler’s door

An acquaintance informed me that Gustav Mahler
wanted a theme for his symphony
“salvation” … I wrote one straight away,
because I feel the topic to be
the very one I hold most dear.

I entrusted my libretto to the mail,
and suddenly heard Peter’s voice call – Rabbi, Master!
Taking steps toward the composer’s apartment.
I think of the apostle walking on water.

The intro was composed of four notes, then “Entrée!”
Go and inform Maestro Mahler, if you please,
that I am chilled to the bone; with your leave
I’ll drink something strong before I freeze.

He spoke no more than couple of words
but these plucked the strings of my soul
I gazed at Orion in the night sky, awed,
feeling at last that I was part of the whole.