The wood is decked in light green leaf.
The swallow twitters in delight.
The lonely vine sheds joyous tears
Of interwoven dew and light.
Spring weaves a gown of green to clad
The mountain height and wide-spread field.
O when wilt thou, my native land,
In all thy glory stand revealed?

  The wood is clothed in leaf?
The swallow twitters again,
In the garden the solitary vinestem
Weeps with excess of joy.

The mead is in bloom,
The mountains blossom,
O beloved fatherland
Why dost thou not bloom?

Ilia Chavchavadze
Translated by Marjory and Oliver Wardrops
Ganatleba Publishers
Tbilisi 1987