You bore the Child at night. There is no other reason for hope, but that matters so much, is so huge, so eternally endless, that it consoles the unknown, underground anchorite. The only sure facts are the cattle's lament in the shred, the Wise Men's haste, the inexperienced mother's elbow marking The Child with a miraculous spot on His brow. All the rest is absurd, an age-old but fugitive lie. But they reproach you for drinking or some other fault and stuff your brain with the bones of a system picked clean.
People dream that they heard a little toy bell-ringer ringing the bell on the tree.
The day as it downed was week, not much of a sight. The light was paler than pink, pastel, not harsh, the way an amethyst shimmers on a young girl's neck. All looked down, once they had seen the sad, humble cross. And when they arose, reluctantly opening their eyes, a trolley flew by through the snowstorm, gold trim inside it. The view from the window was such that Leningrad's secrets and splendors brought tears to my eyes, filled me with love.