There once was a frog prince who enjoyed being a frog. He was actually a frog--he was born a frog, and would die a frog. There were frog goldsmiths that crafted his magnificent crown just so because they enjoyed being frogs, and serving frogs, and wanted to support the preservation of their kingdoms through frog rituals like the queen croaking ten times on the night of succession into the king's scepter so that he would evenly distribute material as well as philosophical bounties across the land. Or swamp. Depending upon the breed of frog.
I would like to write a book of contemporary "just so" poems, a la Kipling's stories, but ideally far less politically incorrect. I wish that animals could give me oral histories in a tongue that I could fully appreciate. I worry that, someday, I will come to an impasse in which the ways of translating a cricket chirp will appear to be woefully limited.
(I don't think that I will, really! But I do worry about it.)
I would like to write a book of contemporary "just so" poems, a la Kipling's stories, but ideally far less politically incorrect. I wish that animals could give me oral histories in a tongue that I could fully appreciate. I worry that, someday, I will come to an impasse in which the ways of translating a cricket chirp will appear to be woefully limited.
(I don't think that I will, really! But I do worry about it.)
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