And here, a poet in a forgotten state.  Caucasian Albania, we call it, though it was in what is now Azerbaijan.  We don’t even know what they called it. And yet, there the poet.  He’s brute forcing a piece as we watch. The trappings are familiar. A cat on a windowsill by candlelight. A half-eaten plate of figs and bread and onion forgotten beside the scrolls. His country has existed for several hundred years. It will exist for perhaps fifty more. He does not know this. He does not know that the name of the state will be lost. Or that even the language will be lost, save for the alphabet on several stone inscriptions. That the cairn he builds will point to no road. This work continues forever. He sweats through his hair on this hot mid-year night.  Nearby, a fisherman celebrates the catch of the largest beluga sturgeon anyone had ever seen pulled from the Caspian Sea.  He is a great fisherman. The stuff of legend. He shares the caviar freely with his guests, who toast him. How they feast upon this lethal practice, and tell the story until they all have it. Cobblers, farmers, a wine merchant. Man versus sea: a universal translation.