Like Crusoe, I’m often alone and thinking —
Searching for ships where the sky meets the earth,
And suddenly find my thoughts are sinking
In a bottomless pool of words.
On my wild barbaric isle —
In skins from hopes that I had grown,
I sharply scan the sky a while,
— Where’s that Friday of my own?
My throat gives way and out pours woe,
Sounding unheard to the world’s end.
Oh God! At least send me a foe,
If you don’t want to send me a friend.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky