Battery Opperayed Blanket

steppe

carol e

In this Kalmyk steppe which extends eastward to the estuary of the Volga and the edges Caspian Sea, where it turns into desert land and the sky were reflected in the other one for so long they look like husband and wife are alike when they have lived their entire lives together. And it is impossible to know if it's the gray of the grass that grows on the uncertain and faded blue of the sky or the steppe that has permeated the blue sky, and it becomes impossible to distinguish between heaven and earth They are based in the same age without dust. When you look thick and heavy water lakes and Dats Barmantsak we seem to see salt plates to the surface of the earth plates salt them, they imitate deceptively water lakes.

Perhaps this is why it are so many mirages? The boundaries between air and earth, between water and salt are gone. Momentum of thought, an impulse from the brain of a thirsty traveler is transformed into an elegant blue stone buildings and the land begins to trickle, and palm trees stretch to the horizon and the rays sun terrible and devastating, through clouds of dust, are transformed into golden domes of the palace ...

Man, one minute of collapse, creates itself from the sky and the earth, world of his desires.

Suddenly the desert steppe is showing off a any other day.

steppe! Nature without any garish color, without any roughness in the terrain, the sober melancholy shades of gray and blue can surpass the rich stream of colorful autumn forest in Russia, and the soft lines, barely rounded hills' s hold of it the soul more surely than the peaks of the Caucasus; lakes greedy, filled with water as the old world, say what water is better than all the seas and the oceans.

Everything passes, but the sun, huge and heavy sun, the sun melting in the fumes of the night, but this wind, this wind bitter, absinthe-soaked, we never can forget ... Rich is the steppe

... Here it is spring, a young, covered with tulips, ocean color ... The camel grass is green and his quills are still tender and sweet.

But still - the morning in summer or winter, dark nights of rain or moonlight - always and foremost, steppe speaks to man of freedom ... She reminds those who have lost.

Vasily Grossman, Life and Fate .