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A boundless ocean of imagination, as salty as the lymph inside your brain, became a breeding field of the cetacean ideas... I'm afraid, you'd plagued in vain by merciless insomnia, the poet: they have a water lifestyle at this time, but soon become the feathered ones, you know it, ("you know it" is the Robert Browning's rhyme*). They will grow up, peck out the poet's liver, caw, clang, cluck, quack, crow, tweet, cheep, chirp and then they spread their wings and leave the caregiver alone with his insomnia again. Get used, the poet, to the fact that they, no matter clipping wings, to fly away. * "The Glove" by Robert Browning. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
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