I made you a submarine

Bonaparte, the Corsican. Born 1769, a Leo. He wishes his whole face were mouth to cram a whole bird.

Here now on my ocean prison I while away the last hours in following with my eyes, in the azure of the sky, a beautiful flamingo flying over the ruins of Carthage; lulled by the murmur of the waves, I half forget my own existence and sing in a low voice a song of the sea: I am going to die.