On Primævaletudinarianism

Как обычно писал Григорий Сковорода, из сего зерна:

Ты
В белом холодном тумане гостинной
Вяжешь из глупых мыслей носки
На пол по твоим щекам текут слёзы
Вокруг стройных ног твоих всходят ростки
Над головой твоей кружат стрекозы
Беседы на стенах ведут пауки
Затягивая древний портрет паутиной
В обои втыкая свои коготки


ON PRIMÆVALETUDINARIANISM

Down in the mist-hazèd depths of your parlour
You knit fancy socks of recycled foolish thoughts.
Your tears via your cheeks freely flow on the flower
That sprouted between your nice feet major toes.

Red dragonflies circle your head halowise,
With fabulous voices the spiders converse
Upon the old portrait they cobwebialise
A-puncturing the wallpaper with their petty claws.
Wee water-drops gather at you brow to nurse,
And brim with, the life, to wash off the aws
Of primæval forests (weird trees stand askew),
The primæval skies (now seen sapphire, now perse),
Of nine million men sharing your point of view
Of whether that each day turns worse and still worse.

But
Up in the mist-clear depth of Tearharbour
ID knits foolish thoughts of recycled fancy socks,
IDS tales via ourselves freely flow on our Arbour
That sprouted between the dead stars major flocks.