Golden dawns of Novgorod

Ah, those golden dawns in Novgorod!
Ah, those wonderful boy-alike girls and boys with Portuguese songs!
Ah, Sophia with its cats, icons and dark light, John the Baptist and mirror fields!

Novgorod, a city where I unexpectedly woke up last Monday, ended up to be a marvelous place. A place where I feel so Russian, maybe even too Russian. The winds here are like curly boys who shroud me in questions and answers. Poems are read and written in this place in a very special and different way, and thoughts join last ice-floes that are looking for oblivion between the waves.

Infinite smiles, endless warm glances and perpetual feeling of no regret, unlike my Moscow days. And at the same time it was only me, me and 1150 years of history seen from my balcony. Waking up in the middle of the night and spending a few minutes outside guided by stars and a silver light reflecting from Sophia’s domes sometimes felt as heart-screwing as holding a dying swallow in your hand, I swear. And the ringing of bells echo off my teeth when I whisper elegies and eulogies to people, things and moments.

The dawns of Novgorod are golden.
The nights are forged by millions of wooden birds, the desperate children of shabby fences.
The days disappear, frayed by the painful looks of forgotten houses.

This is Russia, its real soul.
Photos. The film was spoiled by me and guys at the photolab, so it’s in fashionable lo-fi.

Golden dawns of Novgorod.

Golden dawns of Novgorod.

John the Baptist

Kremlin.

Kremlin.

At a monastery.

La piedra es una frente donde los sueños gimen sin tener agua curva ni cipreses helados.

At a monastery.

Spring is almost like autumn. A mirror autumn, to be exact.

City of anachronisms.

St. Sophia's cat.

Anachronisms.

Monastery.

First signs of spring.

Seagulls are awesome conversationalists.

Kremlin.

Walking.

Monument of the 1000th anniversary of Russia.

Mirror fields.

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~ by Anna on April 27, 2010.

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