9 lines
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Plaintext
9 lines
1.0 KiB
Plaintext
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The cloud shuddered with blue flame. Thunder rumbled slowly.
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It either intensified or almost died down. And the rain, obeying the thunder, began to fall harder at times and rustle widely through the leaves, then stopped.
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Soon the sun broke through the clouds. The old Pushkin Park in Mikhailovskoye and the steep banks of Soroti were ablaze with red clay and wet grass.
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A slender rainbow lit up across the cloudy distance. It sparkled and smoked, surrounded by wisps of ashen clouds.
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The rainbow looked like an arch erected on the border of a protected land. Here, in Pushkin’s places, thoughts about the Russian language arose with particular force.
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Here Pushkin wandered with his head uncovered, with his cold hair tangled by the autumn wind, listening to the wet hum of the pine tops, looking, squinting,
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from where the autumn clouds rush, I rushed around the fairs. Here wonderful words overwhelmed him, oppressed his soul and, finally, were composed, one by one, with the stub of a goose feather, into ringing stanzas.
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