Seven hundred seventy-seven words.
Words that hid the word-machine.
Seven hundred seventy-seven words, not even one word more or less.
The word-machine hating in its head,
words are in it too much, trying to escape them and yet can not.
“If I just wasn’t full of words… … Then what would I be? Why I am full of words, I do not know the ones I would…”
He expressed his desire for silence…
The word-machine is in vain trying to escape before it benefits him.
Will someone come to help?
Calling the day and calling the night…
… and the aid is nowhere to see.
The word-machine was no longer sleeping
when Someone appeared before him…
… whom he never met before.
He sat down to him and began to tell him:
“I’ve heard you know the words. Rent me a few. ”
The word-machine was surprised, what is it?
Well, a few words it borrowed him.
Someone wrote on the paper. At first to one, then to two, then to three… … And finally…
… The word- the machine has wiped out. “Sleep, while out of these words does not create the myriad of children’s dreams.
While on the top of this mountain does not show the plantation of tulips.
Don’t worry about words, all of them will return. Though they won’t be the same, you’ll get brothers.
They won’t make you frown, whirling, anymore.
They will be good rumours to spread.
Words have such power. Now sleep, good night. “