Rind hurt spin
The whole was well stirred with a deal spatula, the glass body put on a very gentle sand-heat, which only kept it warm, and pretty near the same degree of heat that is required for the common indigo vat. In all the other processes, it is sufficient to follow the simple operations transmitted from masters to apprentices. The retarding of the action of the vat may also proceed from the temperature of the air; for the vat cools a great deal sooner in winter than in summer; therefore it becomes necessary to watch it attentively, though commonly they are fourteen or fifteen hours before they come to work. At the same time, three pounds of sifted slacked lime must be put into another vessel, with six quarts of water, and boiled together for a quarter of an hour; when settled, the clear is poured off by inclination. Not to deviate from the method followed by the Dyers, I boiled one part of grape-madder and one of bran, in parts of water: this proportion of water is not necessary, more or less may be put, but I wanted to fill my vessel, which contained parts. After making this opening, which is also called the first raking, the vat is to be again raked, and served with lime at discretion, observing that it has the smell and touch conformable to what has been laid down before, and taking notice, that in proportion as the dye diminishes, so does the strength of the woad.
Tuhandes sosinas valgusest tõin ilmale kaalukausil tukkuva hinge. Kiht kihilt koorus peitemängu maha, ma tundsin, kuidas alla voolas värv.
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Ja sulas ümber luude tukslev vaha ja selles kaoses katkes viimne närv. Täiskuu valguses vesi üle südame pesi minu raamatu raame.
Mu hingel oli valus samamoodi, rind hurt spin siis, mil katnud seda oli rind. Ja pööreldes käis mööda tuba voodi, kus unevalus nutmas rind hurt spin mind.
Aeg neelas alla halvaksläinud õhtud ja mälestused, millel kasvas tolm. Ja kõigist, kes mu küsimusist tehtud, jäi päevatõusuks alles ainult kolm.
In a thousand whispers, I brought from the light a soul pondering on a scalepan. In the light of the full moon, water over my heart washed the frames of my book. The wind tore patches away, as I stood in the cold night rain, from my wax-shade skin.
All seemed so simple and a cuckoo sang in my unthawed brain. Carried by the full moon, I rose up in the gentle light of the full moon, wrote my heart out on my mouth. Layer by layer the pretense was shed, I felt the paint come off.
And the wax surging around my bones was melted and in this chaos, the last of my nerves was severed.