In the Forests of Mogilef
113
In the wind there are drifts of Mogilef sand upon the road.
From ahead there comes forward on the road whole clouds, whole white clouds.
Dust.
The grey carts go no longer in single file.
They have occupied the highway in its whole width.
They come on like a wall.
The aching eyes of the horses, the aching eyes of the people, equally full of physical suffering and full of affliction, rend the heart.
Over the branches of the trees, whither a glance of the eyes will not take you, rise the many smokes.
Now it is continuous.
The whole forest is inhabited.
Through the dust the whole atmosphere is yet penetrated with a sweet odour of hot pine branches.
