At night in Tbilisi, the East is erased, obliterated.
From the East only a few luminous shimmers remain on ancient parked Ladas, embedded in the back alleys.
The East in the way of throwing a glass of tchatcha,
over one’s shoulder,
in one go.
The East in the way of saying to a drunken tourist who sings the International:
"Your sweetest dreams are our worst nightmares."

In this city of princes and gangsters, tempted to become a tourist destination for hipsters, the youth gathers around electronic music, indy rock, visual art.
The youth fights against some conservative sides of the Georgian society.
Clubs, festivals, exhibitions are their places to party but also to protest.

During long diners, a certain way of enjoying life in Caucasus is celebrated, but without forgetting the geopolitical game, under the eyes of the remote Europeans, and the close neighbours, the Russians, the Iranians, the Turks.

At night the East is asleep in Tbilisi.

A long poem,  dedicated to Georgia, at night.


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