It’s been 150 years since this river flows and traversed through off the Georgians hearts, comes lapping and roaring, to carry his magically saved poems in front of our eyes daily as huge shorts of the collapsed bases of the world, or as a boat caravan with no oar and sail, on the mildewed bottom of which is laying a man tortured because of his talent and intelligence.
Of course, he did not know that he could do so much. Neither his relatives knew it. Nobody knew it. It was dark in Georgia. The impossible darkness stood solidity, unnatural, but already included in flesh and bone. Unlike others, it was difficult to him to live in this darkness, he was afraid of this darkness and like the man left in the ruined tunnel, he was doing everything he could to come out to the world, he dreamed about becoming a soldier and was looking for a guide that would hold his hand and put him on the path. His goal was to come out to the world and he did it, but when he was already dead, already a resident of heavenly Georgia. Only his soul has escaped from the boulders of darkness, but already being transformed into words. Fortunately for us, he was noticed. They recognised him, I wanted to say, because it seems that the providence has vanished all of his pictures to make him faceless like God, and at the same time make it painfully familiar to all of us…