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Behold the fate of one who choose the night for writing poems. Poet fell asleep, I mean, he thinks he's sleeping. He can cite Baudelaire asleep or calculate the sheep that graze on misty pastures of his mind, call forth a lethargy, sleep of the dead, oblivion. He vainly tries to find a rhyme with sleeplessness: gets out of bed and walks around the house sorting through alternatives. He weighs them on the scale of lunacy, he reasons but the true and only reason comes to no avail. Asleep, somnambulist, you did the best that you could do and let me do the rest. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
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