My Money
My money is beautiful.
Like having a flower, a tree, the sky,
‘Gioconda’,
These are beautiful things,
But my money is beautiful, too.
It lies in my pocket and I can touch it –
It’s little and much loved.
It’s so enchanting without being coy,
I can show it to you again and again,
And I can fix it to my buttonhole like a tulip.
My money,
My money . . .
This is a colourful performance,
This is a poor decoration,
This the shiny skin of non-existence.
I will wave it and enter into existence,
where there is a flower, a tree, the sky,
‘Gioconda’.
I shall enter.
I shall enter.
A ticket for me,
And a ticket for you – be my guest.
You know, life is beautiful,
If you attain it with beautiful money.
When I become an old man,
I think I shall give my beautiful money
To the museum of life
As a permanent exhibit.
People will come and enjoy
Looking at my beautiful money.
They will stand there for a long time, excited,
Then they will go home and think about it,
What’s good about it,
When you have a beautiful life,
A beautiful house,
A beautiful poem.
They will think about it,
What’s good about it,
When your money is as beautiful
As your pregnant wife.
.
by Shota Iatashvili
from pankari tsasji (‘Pencil in the Air ’)
publisher: Caucasian House, Tbilisi, 2004
translation: 2007, Donald Rayfield