Ode to the Georgians,
ode to the Armenians,
you stand on the mountain slopes
like fine apples,
ripe with history,
roots deep in the stone.
Your sweetness is not naïve—
it carries the bite of struggle,
the crispness of survival,
the fragrance of ancient orchards
that never bowed to winter.
Fine apples,
Georgian and Armenian,
you are fruit born of endurance,
shining in the hand of time.