Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Maya Sarishvili

MICROSCOPE


Nobody has got so scared as I, for some reason,
Nobody can have caught sight of melancholy exuded by the cells.
The cells of onion skins,
Cells of strands of hairs of fail-grade and top-grade pupils,
The whole class of cellular beings,
Including the view from the window . . .
Suddenly the protective layer has been stripped from the universe,
The path to the house becomes alien.
And the house with all its rooms.
But further off
Dubious alien parents
At dubious work . . .
What melancholy. What spell-casting.
Silent film seen under the microscope.
It’s as though
God calls up something for your eyes
But still won’t tell you the main thing.

მიკროსკოპი

მიკროსკოპი

არავინ დაშინდა რატომღაც ჩემსავით.
ვერავინ დაინახა უჯრედების წამლეკავი მელანქოლია.
ხახვის ფურცლის უჯრედები,
ოროსნების და ხუთოსნების თმის ღერთა უჯრედები,
დაუჯრედებული მთელი კლასი,
ხედიც - ფანჯრიდან...
უცებ, სამყაროს გარსი აეფხრიწა.
გაუცხოებული გზა სახლისაკენ.
სახლიც - ყველა ოთახით.
უფრო შორს კი -
დაუჯერებელი უცხო მშობლები
დაუჯერებელ სამსახურებში...
რა სევდა. რა ჯადოქრობა.
მიკროსკოპით ნანახი მუნჯი კინო.
თითქოს,
ღმერთი თვალისაკენ რაღაცას ამოგძახის,
მაგრამ მთავარს მაინც არ გეუბნება...
Close

MICROSCOPE


Nobody has got so scared as I, for some reason,
Nobody can have caught sight of melancholy exuded by the cells.
The cells of onion skins,
Cells of strands of hairs of fail-grade and top-grade pupils,
The whole class of cellular beings,
Including the view from the window . . .
Suddenly the protective layer has been stripped from the universe,
The path to the house becomes alien.
And the house with all its rooms.
But further off
Dubious alien parents
At dubious work . . .
What melancholy. What spell-casting.
Silent film seen under the microscope.
It’s as though
God calls up something for your eyes
But still won’t tell you the main thing.

MICROSCOPE


Nobody has got so scared as I, for some reason,
Nobody can have caught sight of melancholy exuded by the cells.
The cells of onion skins,
Cells of strands of hairs of fail-grade and top-grade pupils,
The whole class of cellular beings,
Including the view from the window . . .
Suddenly the protective layer has been stripped from the universe,
The path to the house becomes alien.
And the house with all its rooms.
But further off
Dubious alien parents
At dubious work . . .
What melancholy. What spell-casting.
Silent film seen under the microscope.
It’s as though
God calls up something for your eyes
But still won’t tell you the main thing.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère