All Language Is Translation

I dreamt I was translating a poem.  It was in Greek.  It was in Czech.  I had lenses that I put on which allowed me to see the words in English, though some of it I understood anyway.  The light had to be just right for the lenses, so I had to adjust and squint.  I was at the beach near my hometown.  I was on a Mediterranean island where I’ve never been.  I was an adolescent.  I was an adult.  Boys were teasing me; they’d stolen my translator glasses.  I was an expert, an English teacher.  I went diving in the waves and surfaced, disoriented and laughing.  When I awoke from the dream, I knew the poem had been about childhood and summer and innocence and love, but I don’t remember any of the words.


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