The sky is troubled
and the wind has grown strong enough to blow my ears out straight, like
little flags. A sharp cry, such as I make when I beg, comes under the
door. You'll be shining here every day, Fire; but I'll have to suffer
for the right to worship you. For She'll continue to wander about, her
head covered with the pointed hood which changes her so, that it
frightens me. She'll put on wooden shoes too, and carelessly crush the
puddles, the little heaps of mud, and the weeping mosses. I'll follow
her, since I've promised to do so my life long (and also because I
can't help it), I'll follow her, a forlorn and piteous object, shining
wet, my belly covered with mud, until, through very excess of misery
I'll forget, and ramble in the coppice, interested in every undulation
of the grass, eager to revive the drowned scents in it.... She'll become
communicative when she sees me hurrying along and we'll talk: "Ha,
Toby-Dog," she'll say, "ha! ha! a bird! There on the branch! Look! you
booby! Now he's gone." She'll condole with me then, until I'm on the
verge of tears. "Oh, my little black boy, my sympathetic cylinder, my
batrachian love, how cold you are, how wet, how sad, how you suffer,
oooo!" And before I'm able to judge of the sincerity of her pity, the
tears will overflow, my throat contract, and we'll wail in unison.
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