The magical wood

…And here, there was the sky, burning with purple and pink from the west to the east. Clouds were rushing, half- dissolving in each other, but still forming curious figures, giving one a chance to invent an animal or a thing every cloud resembled. In the distance the top of a heel was drowning in grey haze. The image of the doubling sun was confusing one`s mind, but, a moment later, it was combining into a whole red circle. Birds were not seen. They were apparently flying in the depths of the magical wood, which usually merged all the creatures, stepping or appearing somehow in it, whether consciously or in sly thoughtfulness, by mistake.
 The trees were stirring from slight wind, bearing scent, impossible to perceive by the beings not dwelling here. Senses are too weak for such sweet, mad perfume, and so are ears, failing to hear the sounds, produced in this kingdom of virgin nature.
 The wings of huge butterflies were clinging somewhere high,cautiously breaking silence of the coloured, walking away evening. Among heather yellow insects were skittishly moving back and forward, making grass shatter.
 The nets, which long, lucid spiders bound, hung in the air and wound as any light spilled on them. So the place was full of nets- spirals. Dim light was penetrating between every pair of plants and they shined in joyfulness. Crystals of dew did not linger on leaves, they softly leapt down and remained blinking, glittering balls that are eternally clear.
 Here blooming life had its own laws. Drops of blue rain were falling, returning again to the air and the ground did not manage to drink them. Flowers, reaching the lowest branches of the trees, were bursting with intoxicating splendour. Everything was smothered in alive bells.

 …A sound advanced nearer and nearer. At first it was low, then -strong, cutting quietness by its abrupt sincerity. Was this nightingale singing for the dying soul of a lonely man or for a child, starting his life there, in the outer world? Was this nightingale singing for a dream, left on the bottom of the moon and still had not come true? Or this nightingale was singing for a desperate desire to feel beauty and inevitable disappointment to receive only ugliness?

 …Here, blooming life had its own laws. A fairy- tale commenced painting the sky into dark. Night was coming.