Lia Sturua (ლია სტურუა )

The frozen street forces me to walk on nails:
The sharp sides pointed towards me,
The heads - deep in the ground.
Looking out of the window I am already frightened,
I make a deal with the TV
And some announcers grow inside my throat
Like nettles
And eventually they start talking like me:
Emotions on the top of the tongue,
a background in philology...
Leaving all those at home
I go out easier,
The nail-street,
Bends lie a cat's back -
Soft, with some warmth inside.
Who remembers me?
Is it really possible to stretch a hand
From out of the grave
As though from out of a blanket?