Through all that long Spring day we wandered on--wandering it seemed
as the train picked its way through the fields under a sky of blue
thin and fine like glass; through a world so quiet and still that
birds and children sang and called as though to reassure themselves
that they were not alone. Nothing of the war in all this. At the
stations there were officers eating "Ztchee" soup and veal and
drinking glasses of weak tea, there were endless mountains of hot meat
pies; the ikons in the restaurants looked down with benignancy and
indifference upon the food and the soldiers and beyond the station the
light green trees blowing in the little wind; the choruses of the
soldiers came from their trains as though it were the very voice of
Spring itself. It sounded in the distance like--
_Barinisha Barinisha--Pop.
Barinisha--Pop.
So--la, la--la ...
Bar ... inisha la._
The bell rang, officers with meat pies in their hands came running
across the platform. We swung on again through the green golden day.
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