Just wait a bit,

And you too will rest.

Any idiot could understand that one. But:

Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails. I've read the list of ships halfway: That long brood, that train of cranes, That once arose over Hellas…

You could only squawk and scratch your beard. And then this one:

Spikenard, cinnamon, and aloe Are rich in alluring fragrance: As soon as Aquilon does blow, They'll drip aromas of incense.

Yikes! Just go and figure out what'll drip where. Yes, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, knows all kinds of words. He's a poet, after all. Not easy work. "You may extract a single word from a thousand tons of linguistic ore," says Fyodor Kuzmich. He works himself to the bone for us. And he has oodles of other things to see to as well.

They say he thought up cutting a crooked stick from a piece of wood and bending it into a bow. We're supposed to call it a yoke. It's all the same to us, the boss is the boss, he can call it a yoke, the why and wherefore-it's none of our business. And you carry water jugs on this bow so your arms won't stretch out. Maybe they'll hand out some of these yokes at the Warehouse in the spring. First to the Saniturions, may their names not be spoken at night, then to the Murzas, and then, as soon as you know it, they'll come our way. And spring's already in the air. The streams will start running, the flowers will come out, the pretty girls will put on their dresses… What a dream! Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, wrote:

O spring without end or borders! Dream without borders to yield!

I recognize you, life, I embrace you, And greet you with the ring of the shield!

Only why is it "the ring" of the shield? After all, the shield- the one for announcing decrees-is made of wood. If you happen to get a roadwork notice, if someone takes it into his head to make his own sleigh or doesn't turn over enough mouse meat, for instance, or if they postpone Warehouse Day too many times, the shield doesn't ring, it makes a dull thud. But then, the law isn't written for Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. He has something to say about this, too. "Be proud," he says, "such art thou, poet, there is no law for thee." So it's not for us to tell him.