Veins filled with sun — not blood —
On my hand, brown so soon.
I am at one with my great love
To own my soul.
I am waiting for a grasshopper, I count to a hundred,
Chewing a stalk's spine...
— Strange to feel so strongly and so simply
The fleetingness of life — and mine.
Солнцем жилки налиты — не кровью —
На руке, коричневой уже.
Я одна с моей большой любовью
К собственной моей душе.
Жду кузнечика, считаю до ста,
Стебелёк срываю и жую…
— Странно чувствовать так сильно и так просто
Мимолётность жизни — и свою.
«The Dostoyology of racing clouds! / Pushkincandescence of noon! / Night resembles Tiutchev, / filling the unfathomable full of the unknown.»
«Hlaha! Uthlofan, lauflings! / Hlaha! Ufhlofan, lauflings! / Who lawghen with lafe, who hlaehen lewchly, / Hlaha! Ufhlofan hlouly! / Hlaha! Hloufish lauflings lafe uf beloght lauchalorum! / Hlaha! Loufenish lauflings lafe, hlohan utlaufly! / Lawfen, lawfen, / Hloh, hlouh, hlou! Luifekin...»
«Who wants to hear a story / about a little lady who lived very grand, / oh, not a big-time lady really, / just a sort of fat froggie: / she was short and she waddled and she wore a dress, / and had lots of significant friendships / with pine trees, all of them princes. / She goes visit...»
«On the island of Ezeli / we got along easily. / I went to Kamchatka / where you were a hat-check girl. / From the heights of Altai / I smiled and said, "Hi!" / On the shores of Amur, / I'amour.»