Nasko H. was dreamingabouta new ocean of rum, ginger, raisins and honey when a light wind, tired of random whims, crept through the chink under the door and fell asleep on the bottom of the green high-necked teakettle.
In his dream Nasko H. couldn’t see the teakettle turn into a dirigible and carry the sleeping breezeaway, above the high stone hill. He couldn’t see his rounded bodydescendlikea bathyscapheto the bottom of the human sea. He couldn’t see its green hump cross the desert of hope like a camel.He couldn’t see it cross the tundra of childhood like a steam machine. He couldn’t see the telescope on its neck gather all the shooting stars and turn them into dry tears of happiness on the face of the sleeping wind.
Nasko H. could see none of these. Norcouldthe light windsee it, now buried on the bottom of the teakettlein its bed of dry peppermint.