In the Forests of Mogilef
121
—That it is a nice place.
And lay their own dead with the others, side by side.
And yet more come, and yet more. And the cemetery grows, stretching itself out along the margin of the road.
And one reads the heart-breaking inscriptions on the crosses:
—Infant.
—Infant.
—Infant.
Yes, truly, it is the province of Mogilef.[1]
Every three, every five versts,—and then every two versts, and every verst,—crosses, crosses, crosses.
A continuous cemetery.
And between these crosses, and amongst the lowering smoke of forest bonfires and clouds of dust come on, come on, without end come on grey carts and people, like grey visions.
- ↑ "Mogila" is Russian for a grave.
