на стих:
Insomnia. Homer. Tight sails.
I read the list of ships to the middle:
This long brood, this train of cranes,
That once rose over Hellas.
Like a wedge of cranes to foreign borders, —
On the heads of kings the divine foam, —
Where are you sailing? If not for Helen,
What is Troy to you alone, Achaean men?
And the sea, and Homer — all are moved by love.
Whom should I listen to? And now Homer is silent,
And the black sea, rhetoric, roars
And with a heavy rumble approaches the head of the bed.