Rain in the Soul
Явор Емилов Тодоров (явор64)Раздел: Проза на чужд език Цикъл:
When he came up, on the other morning, he understood that the rain was in his soul. Yes, it was real, in the middle of the climb, it began to rain and his orange jets was lashing his face, and his blond hairs, long and unruly, was sticking on his forehead, he could not even bowed his head as his posture was awkward, based on the wedges, which was fixing in the cliff more easily than it could be assumed. He has been started up as a giant bat, the cassock was flourishing like black flower, in the first hundred body lengths it was extremely beautiful but furthermore he understood he could not succeed with the cross, this sacred cross, in fact quite light, altough iron, however carring away, down, down to the overturning of the ground, to the stereotyping in the pupils the last blue gleam of the river, to the approaching to a warm, redolant span of land, sufficent to the sprawling body. Then the cassock flew down as a black flower, thrown in the rain and very heavy, snapped on the stones, aside from those who were down looking silently. But when he came up, his head touching the sky in the gold of the sunset, he looked over the silent mountains, over the drowsy forests and the bare yellow and gray hills and he told to himself - no, he thought - no, but he feel it - what sense was there, in the climbing and the looking, the putting of this Cross that would have existed three hundred years. Now the passengers through the gorge would cast a glance at the Cross, would make the sign of the Cross. But when he get up, he knew that rain was in his soul.