Sketches of Russia

The land is covered by snow. The snow is so white that it looks blue. Everything is frozen. Napoleon failed, revolutions staged and ideologies born and dead. Dr Zhivago’s mother got buried, into this bluish fridge, like the Tsars family. Who said that there is no equality?
The snow covered land extends to the horizon, to the faintest blue. The lighter the color, the further the distance. The mountains look at discarded skeletons. The rivers look like a snapshot of rivers on a map – with its stand-still streams meaning nothing but a sign. The desert ignores all other existence – because to a great stretch it is the only existence.
A road, with nobody and nothing on it, cut through the snow. It seems that someone just tried to wake up the earth with a giant whip, a straight strike, so deep and so painful. The road leads to more harsh, dry and rough land.
All of a sudden, a tiny village appeared, like a few bricks accidentally dropped in the middle of nowhere. This is what all the journey is worth for.