I am lying on the seashore; my dog is sleeping next to me.
My boat is dozing on the sea. There’s a blue sky above, colorful stones below, an unswimmable ocean in front, and an unwalkable tundra behind. I hear the murmur of a stream pressing itself to the breast of the great sea. The summer day stretches endlessly. The August sun warms the arctic earth, me, my dog, my boat . . .
Everything beneath this soft sky and on this warm earth is asleep. No, not everything. Listen! a gunshot! Another. Indeed, the rich don’t sleep. From the water there comes the fearful cry of ducks; a flock of grebes takes flight; seagulls burst into tears. A crow shrieks.
Oh, Crow! Why do you wish evil on this shore?
The sea turns in its sleep. The tundra yearns in its dream.
Oh, rich man! When will you sleep also?
Mosquitoes buzz round me, alight on my hand, and suck my blood. They cannot live without blood, mosquitoes—like man: he too cannot live without blood.
Oh, Crow! You are such an evil bird!
I touch the stones and speak to them, saying, “Once you were boulders; someday you will be sand; and later on, you will be dust. We will all be dust—me, my dog, and my boat.
Oh, Crow! You are such an evil bird!