My First Love – Shamila
My grandfather had a beautiful stallion of the iorga breed.
His name was Shamila.
He was red-haired, with big honey-colored eyes and a long, fiery tail. I loved looking into his eyes, touching his soft face, talking to him as if he were human. Sometimes I kissed his forehead and whispered my secrets. I was sure he understood everything.
Every morning I ran to him with a bucket of fresh water. I brushed his neck, his back, his legs, and leaned against his warm body. His long, elegant neck was so beautiful—almost unreal. I couldn’t wait for each new day just to be with him.
On hot summer days Shamila stayed in the small stable behind our house, quietly chewing fresh grass. I fed him with my own hands. He loved carrots and sugar cubes. At night, we filled his stall with hay so he would never be hungry.
He was my best friend. I sang to him, and he answered me with soft neighs. Sometimes it felt as if he smiled.
Under the acacia trees near his shelter, I made my little hideout. I spent hours there reading books and stories out loud. My voice reached even the neighbors’ horses—but only Shamila listened with true patience. He was so gentle that I rode him without a saddle. We didn’t even own one.
I trusted him completely.
When I wanted him to run faster, I held his mane, whispered a word, gently pressed my knees into his sides—and he understood. I knew he would never throw me off. He protected me.
My cousin Zura loved Shamila too, but Shamila often threw him off—under peach trees, onto the road, anywhere.
Me—never.
I was a girl, and he treated me with respect.
What hurt me most was seeing Shamila harnessed to a heavy cart, taken to the fields to work. I helped prepare him carefully, so nothing would hurt him. Still, I could hardly wait to set him free again.
One evening, after a long and exhausting day, we took him to the Alazani River. I rode him straight into the water. The river was high, and we swam together. I will never forget that moment—me and my beautiful stallion, floating side by side.
I loved him with all my heart. I cleaned his stall myself. I wrote poems for him. I flirted with him, smiled at him, and—yes—I even confessed my love.
He was my first love.
Then Shamila grew old. His legs weakened, and he could no longer work. The day my grandfather took him away to the slaughterhouse, I cried harder than I ever had before.
They took him early in the morning, while I was still asleep.
When I ran behind the house with his water bucket and opened the stall door, Shamila was gone.
I screamed. I begged. I cried for a very long time.
Later I learned what had happened to my friend. And to this day, my heart still hurts that I could not save him. I was only a child.
I know he loved me as much as I loved him. We understood each other without words.
Even now, whenever I see a red iorga stallion, I see Shamila’s face.
I love you, Shamila.
Forgive me for not saving you.
I believe that somewhere, you still remember your long red-haired girl—