|
|
||
The anil palate, fauces of the sky. Oh, deep blue ink on the supernal tongue! I see the cloud soundlessly die, I mean, the word of cloud dies among the blueness of a phrase of a nice day. The blue Chrysostom tongue is able of expressing everything: the white, the gray intricacy of colors, the standoff between the Earth I'm standing on and you who's speaking from the heaven. You pretend you don't exist. That's why a very few of us can see, discern and understand. The understanding is that me and you misunderstand the meaning of the bleu. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
|