The sun was at its zenith. The disc, brazen with dust, hung in the middle of a chalky, foul sky, and a mongrel shadow was squirming and puckering right under the soles of our feet. At times it was dull and blurry but suddenly seemed to come alive, acquiring a sharper outline and being filled with blackness, which made it look especially ugly. There was no road to speak of, only bumpy dry gray and yellow clay, which was chapped, dead, hard as a rock and so bare that it was entirely unclear where such a great mass of dust was coming from.

Thank god the wind was blowing from behind. Somewhere further back it sucked in countless tonnes of vile scorching powder and with blunt tenacity dragged it along a sun-burnt rocky ledge, which was sandwiched between the steep and the Yellow Wall. It was either throwing it like a spinning protuberance as high as the sky or twisting into flexible, almost flirtatious swan-like necks of whirlwinds, sometimes merely rolling and curling, and then, suddenly going mad, hurling prickly dust into our backs and hair, splashing, like a beast, on the back of the head drenched in sweat, lashing against our arms and ears, filling pockets, pouring inside collars...

There was nothing here, for a long time - nothing. Maybe there has never been anything. The sun, the clay, the wind. Only occasionally a prickly skeleton of a bush, ripped out and uprooted god knows how far behind, would shoot past, twisting and jumping like a grimacing clown. Not a drop of water, not a single sign of life. Only dust, and dust, and dust...

From time to time the clay underfoot would disappear and a stretch of stone chips would begin. Everything here was as red-hot as hell. To the right and to the left giant rock fragments, grey and powdery as if covered in flour, would peer from within the swarms of dust flying past. The wind and the heat made their silhouettes look somewhat strange and unexpected. Frightfully, they appeared and disappeared like ghosts playing their own stone version of hide-and-seek. Eventually cobble underfoot would grow larger and larger, the stone spreading would come to an abrupt end and clay would squelch underfoot again.

The sun was at its highest point. Bronzed by the dust, its disk hung in the centre of an off-white, unclean sky, and its half-hearted shadow contorted and bristled under the soles of his shoes, sometimes grey and faded, and sometimes suddenly animated, becoming sharply defined, flooded with black, and particularly hideous. There was no sign of any road here – only uneven, greyish-yellow, dry clay which was cracked, compacted, as hard as stone, and so bare that it was impossible to understand where such a mass of dust had come from.

The wind, thank God, was blowing onto his back. Somewhere, far behind in the distance, it had sucked up countless tonnes of vile, scorching-hot powder and had dragged it with stubborn obstinacy along the sunburnt ledge which nestled between the chasm and the Yellow Wall. At times its swirling gusts tossed the dust up to the very sky, and at other times it wound it up tightly to form a flexible, almost coquettish, cyclonic swan’s neck, or it might even simply churn like a billowing wave, then all at once become whipped up into a frenzy and hurl the prickly flour onto his back and hair, brutally pelting the back of his sweat-drenched neck, lashing his hands and ears, filling his pockets and pouring into his collar…

There was nothing here. There had been nothing here for a long time. Perhaps forever. Just sun, clay and wind. Occasionally a prickly skeleton of a bush, torn out of the ground in some far-off place, would pass by, twirling and leaping like a crazed jester. There was not a drop of water and no sign of life. Only dust, dust, and more dust…

From time to time the clay underfoot gave way, causing a considerable landslide. Everything here was as hot as hell. To right and to left, gigantic cliff faces – grey, as if sprinkled with flour – gave them the strangest and most unexpected appearance, and then disappeared, like ghosts, seemingly playing some kind of stony hide and seek. Meanwhile, the gravel under his feet became ever firmer, the loose shingle was gone in an instant, and his footsteps rang out once again on the clay.

The sun was directly overhead. A disk, tinged a coppery shade by the dust in the air, it hung in the center of the off-white, unclean sky. A peculiar shadow writhed and bristled under their shoes, at times grey and washed out, at others suddenly coming to life, acquiring sharp contours, and becoming saturated with blackness, which gave it an especially bizarre look. There was no road here at all, nor was there even a trace of one. All around, there was uneven grayish-yellow, dry clay, cracked, crushed, hard as rock, and so denuded that it was completely impossible to tell where the mass of dust around them had come from.

The wind, thank God, was at their backs. Somewhere, far away, it had sucked up innumerable tons of vile, scorching hot particles and with dogged persistence had swept them along the sun-burnt ledge, squeezed between the chasm and the Yellow Wall. Sometimes it cast its whirling protuberances into the heavens themselves, and at other times it curled tightly in flexible, almost coquettish swan's neck whirlwinds. It flung its prickly suffering into their backs and hair, lashing them, brutalizing their sweat-soaked napes. It whipped their hands and ears, filling their pockets, pouring into their collars...

There was nothing here. There hadn't been anything here for a long time, and maybe there had never been. Just sun, clay and wind. Sometimes the thorny skeleton of a bush would pass by, spinning and leaping like a wriggling acrobat, having been ripped from roots that had grown God knows where. There wasn't a drop of water, no sign of life. Just dust, dust, dust, and more dust...

From time to time, the clay under their feet would give way to a compact gravel. Everything was burning hot here, like in hell. First from the right, then from the left, gigantic fragments of rock, ash-gray as if sprinkled with flour, would peek out of the dust clouds. The wind and heat had lent them the strangest and most unexpected shapes, and it was eerie how they would materialize fleetingly only to fade away once again like ghosts, as if playing hide and seek, in their way. Then the pebbles under their feet would become larger and larger, and suddenly the gravel would come to an end, and their feet would begin clomping on clay again.

The sun was at its zenith. Its disc, coloured copper by the dust, hung in the middle of a pale, polluted sky and the skulking shadow writhed and bulged right under the soles of one’s feet. Grey and indistinct, the shadow could suddenly come to life, gaining sharp outlines, swelling with darkness and becoming particularly ugly. There was no road here to speak of – only bumpy greyish-yellow dry clay, cracked, stone-dead and hard, so bare that it was difficult to imagine where all this dust came from.

Thankfully the wind was blowing from behind. Somewhere far back it had sucked up countless tons of the detestable burning hot dust particles and with blind stubbornness dragged them along the sun-scorched ledge, wedged between the precipice and the Yellow Wall. At other times it flung them in a spinning funnel right up into the sky or, twisted them tightly into lithe, almost playful, swan-necked whirlwinds or simply drove them forward in rolling billows and then, in a sudden fit of rage, threw down its prickly powder onto people’s backs and hair, lashing out like a beast at the sweat on the back of one’s neck, whipping arms and ears, filling pockets and getting inside collars...

There was nothing here and there hasn’t been for a long time. Perhaps never. Sun, clay and wind. Only rarely the thorny skeleton of a shrub would tumble by, spinning and jumping like a contorting jester, having been uprooted at some godforsaken point far behind. Not a drop of water, no sign of life. Only dust, dust and more dust...

From time to time the clay underfoot vanished and was replaced by a continuous broken stone. Everything here was scorching, like in hell. Sometimes to the right or to the left giant broken cliffs, greying as if dusted by flour, started to appear from among the speeding plumes of dust. The wind and the heat gave them the strangest and most unexpected shapes and their sudden ghostly apparitions and vanishings were frightening to watch, as they seemed to play a stony game of hide-and-seek. And the stone debris on the ground became larger and larger and then the gravel patch ended suddenly and once again clay would be ringing underfoot.

The sun was at the zenith. The great orb, copper from dust, hung in the centre of a pale, dirty sky. The bastardly shade writhed and bristled under the very soles of our feet, sometimes appearing grey and washed out, but sometimes it was as if it suddenly came to life, taking on a sharpness of contours, filling itself up with blackness, at which moment it was particularly unsightly. There was no trace of any kind of a road here—just dry, uneven clay of a yellow-grey hue. The clay was cracked, dead, hard as a rock, and bare to such an extent that it was quite incomprehensible where such a massive amount of dust was coming from.

The wind, thank God, was at our backs. Somewhere far away behind us, it sucked up innumerable tonnes of wretched, scorching powder, and, with bullheaded persistence, dragged it along a sun-scorched buttress wedged between an abyss and the Yellow Wall, first throwing it up in a spinning protuberance to the very sky, then tightly twisting it into flexible, almost coquettish swans’ necks of dust whirls, and then simply rolling it in a huge, billowing wave; suddenly, it furiously hurled the itchy flour at our backs, in our hair, and, flying into a rage, whipped it at the back of our heads, wet from sweat, lashed it at our arms and ears, filled our pockets, and rained it down behind our collars...

There was nothing here, nor had there been anything for quite some time. But perhaps...there never was. Sun, clay, wind. Sometimes though, the thorny skeleton of a bush, ripped out at the root from God knows where, will shoot past, whirling and leaping, making a scene like a wandering minstrel-clown from a bygone era. Not a single drop of water, no signs of any kind of life whatsoever. Only dust, dust, endless dust...

From time to time, the clay under our feet disappeared and was replaced by a continuous mass of strewn rock debris. Everything here was red-hot, as in hell itself. First on the right and then on the left, giant pieces of rock—ash grey, as if powdered with flour—began to emerge from clouds of dust rushing past. The wind and heat had made their mark on them, carving them up into the most strange and unlikely forms. It was terrifying how they would sometimes appear and then suddenly disappear just like that—as if they were ghosts playing hide-and-seek. But then the scattered rock debris below us grew larger and larger and quite suddenly the flow of rocks terminated and the sound of clay once again rang out from under our boots.

The sun was at its peak, its dusty copper disc hanging amid the murky discoloured sky, a diffuse shadow squirming and swelling beneath our very soles, alternating between grey amorphousness and manifesting as a loathsome sharp outlined dark mass. No road had ever crossed these parts as long as anyone remembered: they had ever been covered in lumpy greyish yellow clay, cracked, lifeless, stone-hard, and so barren as to beg the question where so much dust could have originated.

Thank God, the wind rose from our rear. Somewhere far behind us, it drew countless tonnes of appallingly hot powder, dragging it with a mindless tenacity across the sunbaked ridge between the precipice and the Yellow Wall, chucking it up in swirling protuberances high into the sky, stretching it into sinuous, almost pretty swan’s neck tornadoes, or simply rolling it around in billowing swirls before, taken by sudden fury, hurling its prickly flour onto our backs and hair, lashing our sweat-drenched necks, whipping our arms and ears, packing it into our pockets and under our collars…

There was nothing around; there had long been nothing around. Perhaps there had never been anything around. Except sun, clay, and wind. Only occasionally, the prickly skeleton of a bush uprooted God knows how far away would fly past, spinning and hopping like a malevolent jester. Not a drop of water, not a sign of life. Just dust, dust, dust, dust…

From time to time, the clay underfoot would disappear, giving way to a solid stone gulch, hot as Hell itself. To right and left, the dust clouds would reveal giant fragments of rock, matted grey as if dusted with flour. Wind and heat had moulded them in the weirdest of alarming shapes that would flash and disappear scarily, like stone ghosts playing a petrified game of hide-and-seek. The gravel underfoot would then grow larger before the gulch would suddenly give way to new expanses of ringing clay.

The sun was at its zenith. Its copper-coloured disk hung in the middle of the hazy sky. A revolting shadow twisted and puckered underfoot, one moment grey and indistinct, then, as if suddenly reviving, more pronounced, darker and therefore particularly ugly. There had been no trace of a road, only a lumpy greyish-yellow dried clay surface; cracked, lifeless, stone hard and so bare that it was not clear where such a mass of dust could be coming from.

The wind, thank God, was blowing from behind. Somewhere far behind, it would suck up untold masses of hideous hot dust, dragging it with utter stubbornness along the sunburnt prominence squeezed between the precipice and the Yellow Wall. Then it would either hurl the dust up toward the sky in spinning extensions or would twist it into slender, almost fetching whirlwinds, which resembled swan necks, or simply roll it into a cloudy mass, and then, as if suddenly infuriated, throw the prickly dust into one’s back and hair or slash ferociously at the nape of one’s sweaty neck, at the hands and ears, would stuff pockets and trickle behind one’s collar…

There has been nothing here, nothing at all for a long time, perhaps, even never, ever before but the sun, clay and wind. Sometimes a thorny skeleton of an uprooted bush from God knows where behind, rushed past twirling and bouncing like a twisting clown. There was neither a drop of water nor evidence of life but only dust, dust, dust and more dust…

From time to time, the clay underfoot would vanish, to be replaced with an expanse of rocky gravel. Here, everything was as scorching hot as hell. To the right or the left, huge pieces of fallen rock would suddenly emerge from billowing clouds of dust, grey as if sprinkled with powder. The wind and the heat give them the most strange and unusual silhouettes, eerily, emerging then vanishing again like ghosts playing a rocky “hide and seek”. The gravel underfoot grew in size until suddenly it ended, again replaced by clay resonating beneath my feet.

The sun was directly overhead. The dusty copper disc floated in the centre of a dirty faded sky, while their deformed shadows twisted and bulged underfoot, at times grey and blurred, and at times suddenly coming alive, becoming crisp and deeply black, and hence especially ugly. There was no path here and never had been. There was only the dry, lumpy, yellow-grey mud, cracked, rock hard, and so bare, that it made no sense for there to be so much dust around.

The wind was thankfully blowing from behind. Somewhere far, far back it sucked up endless tonnes of filthy, scorching grit and stubbornly dragged it along the torrid ledge, trapped between the abyss and the Yellow Wall. The wind threw it high up into the sky as a spinning tornado, then twisted it into flexible, like coy swan necks, whirlwinds, or simply rolled it forward as a swirling wall, and then, as if suddenly enraged, threw the pebbled powder against their backs and hair, whipping the dust against their sweat-soaked heads, lashing their arms and ears, and pouring it into their pockets and down the back of their clothing.

There was nothing here and had not been for a very long time. Perhaps it had always been like this. Just the sun, the mud and the wind. Once in a while, a skeletal ball of shrubbery, torn out from God knows how far behind them, would shoot past, spinning and bouncing along its zigzag route. There was not a drop of water and no sign of life. Only the dust, and more dust...

From time to time, the mud would disappear, and they would walk over a rocky scree. Everything around them was hellishly hot. On either side, giant stone outcrops would intermittently peak out from the roiling dust, grey, as if powdered with flour. The heat and the wind gave them strange and unexpected shapes, and it was frightening to watch them appear and disappear, like phantoms, playing a game of hide-and-seek. The stones underfoot would get larger and larger, and then the scree would suddenly end, and they would again be walking over the echoing mud.

It was high noon. The sun, a disk turned copper by the dust, hung in the centre of the pale, dirty sky; the adulterated shade danced and undulated right under the soles of my feet, one minute grey and blurred, then suddenly almost coming to life, the contours achieving definition, filling the blackness and then positively monstrous. There were no paths here, not even a trace of one – it was a bumpy, dry, greyish-yellow clay, cracked, dead, hard, like rock, and so far bare, and in no way did it explain how there had come to be such an enormous amount of dust.

The wind, thank goodness, was at my back. Somewhere, a long way back, it had sucked in tonnes beyond number of invidious, white-hot dust and, with blunt perseverance, it dragged it along the sun-scorched ledge squeezed in between the precipice and the Yellow Wall, shooting it up into the sky in a whirling peak, then curling tightly into supple, almost flirtatious tornados like swans’ necks, before simply rolling in a billowing wave; then, in a sudden fury, it drove needles of pain into my back, my hair; brutal, it lashed the back of my neck, damp with sweat; it whipped my arms, my ears, it filled my pockets, it grabbed me by the scruff of my neck...

There was nothing here, there hadn’t been for a long time. Perhaps there never had been. The sun, the earth, the wind. Only now and then the spiky skeleton of a shrub would streak past, ripped out by the root way back God knows where, twirling and jumping like a japing jester. Not a drop of water, no signs of life. Just dust, dust, dust, dust…

From time to time the earth under my feet petered out, giving way to solid shards of rock. Here, everything was red-hot, like hell. To the right and to the left, gigantic splinters of rock were starting to peek out through the clouds of galloping dust, a silver powder. The wind and the heat lent them the strangest, most unexpected forms, and it was frightening, the way that they would appear, only to disappear once more, like ghosts, as if they were playing a stony hide and seek. But the fragments of stone underfoot grew, and suddenly the gravel came to an end, and once again I could hear the clay under my feet.

The sun was overhead. Copper from dust, the disk hung in the center of the whitish, obscured sky; a mongrel shadow wiggled and puckered from under my very soles, now gray and fuzzy, now suddenly as if alive, taking on sharpness of outlines, filling with darkness and then especially horrid. No road here, hadn't been as long as anyone remembered: there was lumpy dry gray-yellow clay, full of cracks, dead, hard, like stone, and so naked that it was absolutely unclear where all this dust was coming from.

The wind, thank God, was blowing at my back. Somewhere far-off behind me it sucked in the incalculable tons of heinous torrid powder and with blunt tenacity swept it along the sun-burnt ledge, pinched between the gulf and the Yellow wall, now sending it in a spinning protuberance all the way up to the sky, now twisting it tightly into flexible, almost flirtatious, swan-neck dust whirls, now simply rolling it in a billowing shaft and then, suddenly gone berzerk, flinging spiky flour at my back, in my hair, lashing, maniacally beating the sweaty back of my head, whipping my arms, my ears, filling my pockets, getting down my collar...

Nothing was here, not for a long time. Perhaps there never had been anything. Sun, clay, wind. Only once in a while I'd come by the prickly skeleton of a bush, flailing and jumping about as if making funny faces like a wandering showman, torn out by the roots somewhere, God knows where behind me. Not a drop of water, no signs of life. And only dust, dust, dust, dust...

From time to time the clay under my feet disappeared, and solid rocky chunks began. Everything here was scorching, like in hell. Giant pieces of rubble from the cliffs began to peek out, either from the right or the left, from the clouds of onrushing dust, gray as if powdered with flour. The wind and the heat attached to them the strangest, most unexpected forms, and it was scary to see them appear and again disappear, like ghosts, as if playing at their game of stone hide-and-seek. Meanwhile the gravel under foot was becoming larger and larger, and suddenly the scattering ended and again clay rang under foot.

The sun was at its zenith. The disk, copper-like from dust, hung in the center of a dirty-white sky. Your ugly shadow squirmed and bulged under your feet, gray and fuzzy. Then, unexpectedly, as if coming to life, its contours filled with blackness and it became even more ugly. There had never been a road here, only small hills of gray-yellow, dry clay—cracked, dead, rock-hard; an area so huge and barren that it was incomprehensible how it came to be.

Luckily, the wind was at your back. Somewhere, behind you, it picked up tons of disgusting, burning hot dust particles and carried them with a dogged perseverance along the sun-scorched ridge, which was squeezed between the abyss and the Yellow Wall. Sometimes the wind spun the particles into dust devils; sometimes it twisted it into the shape of coquettish swan necks. Or it simply rolled the dust until it curled into a huge ball of sharp-edged flour, which it would angrily hurl at your back, covering your hair and then, seemingly furious, whipped your sweaty nape, pounded your hands and ears, filled your pockets, and seeped under your collar.

Nothing existed here. Nothing had existed here for a long time. Perhaps, never. Only the sun, the dusty clay, and the wind. Occasionally a thorny skeleton of a bush, roots still attached, came out from God knows where and raced by—spinning and jumping like a grimacing skomorokh. Not a drop of water, no signs of any life. Only dust, dust, dust, dust…

From time to time the clay disappeared under your feet, replaced by a continuous crushed stone mass. Here everything was burning hellishly hot. Giant fragments of cliffs began to appear right and left through the clouds of rushing grey powdery dust. The wind and the heat gave them bizarre and unexpected shapes, and it was frightening that they appeared and disappeared like ghosts playing hide and seek. The crushed stones underfoot became larger and larger; and then suddenly the stony accumulation was gone, and the clay again rang beneath your feet.

The sun was at its zenith. The disk covered in copper dust was hanging in the center of the pale, dirty sky, a beastly shadow writhed and bristled under the very feet, being at the same time gray and blurred, and then as though suddenly coming to life, it showed sharp outlines and absorbed darkness which then made it look especially ugly. Nobody recalls that there has ever been a road, in fact it was bumpy, grey-yellow, dry clay that looked like cracked, worn, hard stone being so bare that it was impossible to understand what generated so much dust.

Thank goodness, the wind blew in our favor. Somewhere far behind it was sucking in countless tons of vicious white-hot stone granules and dragged them with plain persistence along the sun-scorched ridge sandwiched between the abyss and the Yellow wall, now ejecting them like a spinning protuberance up to the very sky, now twisting them right into tight, flexible, almost playful tornadoes with swan-like necks, now rolling them as a swirling drum, and then, suddenly getting furious, the wind hurled prickly powder against our backs, and into our hair, going berserk it whipped the back of our necks where sweat was pouring down, whipped our arms, ears, filled our pockets, spilt behind the collar…

There has been nothing here, just nothing for a long time. And maybe, never been. The sun, clay, wind. Sometimes it was only a thorny skeleton of a bush uprooted in the middle of nowhere behind rushing by as a spinning, bouncing, grimacing buffoon. Not a drop of water and no signs of life. Only dust, just dust, nothing but dust...

Occasionally the clay underfoot would disappear somewhere and solid mass of crushed gravel would appear instead. Everything here was white-hot as though in hell. Now on the right, then on the left some huge fragments of cliffs – gray, as if powdered with flour, peered out of the clouds of rushing dust. The wind and heat turned them into the most bizarre and unsuspected shapes, and it was scary that now they would just so appear and then would disappear again as ghosts, as if playing hide-and-seek with cliffs. But the gravel underfoot would become larger, and suddenly the gravel-strewn ground would end and clay would sing again under our feet.

It was high noon. The sun’s copper plate shone through dust interposed on a nominally white, grimy sky. A bastardly shadow writhed and squirmed, the angle of the projection falling below that of the shadow’s own feet. It alternated between a blurry gray and an outline that snapped into focus, filling with blackness and thus becoming uglier still. The hand of man had not laid roads or anything else here. Here was lumpy dry clay, gray and yellow, cracked and killed and hard as stone, so bare that one could not fathom where such a great mass of dust could have come from.

A wind was blowing from behind, thank goodness. Somewhere far back it had inhaled countless tons of scorched and revolting powder, which with resolute stubbornness the wind proceeded to ferry along the sunburnt ledge, squeezed in between the precipice and the Yellow Wall. Particulate was ejected as whirling flares that hit the sky, and then cinched in the intricate, almost flirtatious swans' necks of tornados. It was rolled as puffs, and then a moment later let loose entirely as it inflicted prickling torment on backs and hair, thrashing with wild fury at a sweat-drenched neck, lashing hands and ears, filling pockets, and slipping down a collar...

There was nothing here. There had been nothing here for a very long time, or perhaps ever. Sun and clay and wind. Now and again the prickly skeleton of a shrub might blow through, topsy-turvy and prancing like a country dancer, its roots ripped up an impossibly far distance ago. Not a drop of water. Not a sign of life. Just dust upon dust upon dust.

Sometimes the clay would disappear beneath their feet entirely, giving way to crumbled stone. A truly hellish, scorched landscape. Immense fallen boulders – gray, as if powdered by flour – started to peek out left and right from behind the puffs of rollicking dust. The wind and heat impressed the most strange and unexpected outlines upon these giants, which terrified with their habit of appearing and then vanishing like apparitions the next moment, as if playing geological hide-and-seek. Meanwhile the gravel beneath the travelers’ feet became larger, the bits becoming bigger and then non-existent, as clay rang again underfoot.

The sun was at its peak. Its disk, brass behind the dust, was hanging right in the middle of sordid white, unclear sky; the bustard of a shadow was squirming and bristling from under my soles, now vague and grayish, now – alive with its outlines getting sharp and swelling with darkness and then - especially ugly. There was not a sign of a road here – only a tuberous field of grayish-yellow, dry clay, chapped and worn, hard as rocks and so empty that it was a complete mystery how it could produce such a mass of dust.

The wind, praise be, was blowing from behind. Back there, it engulfed uncountable flows of foul scorching blizzard and stubbornly dragged it along the ledge, burned by the sun and squeezed in between the abyss and the Yellow Wall; at times it egested whirling protuberances into the sky or gallanted the swan necks of tornadoes, tight and flexible, sometimes it would simply bowl along the curling roller of dust and then, suddenly enraged, would hurl this spiny meal powder at our backs, heads and hair, getting brutal it would lash our dump sweaty napes, whip our hands and ears, stuff our pockets, and pour it into our collars…

There was nothing here, had been so for a long time. Maybe, forever. Sun, clay and wind. Rarely would appear a thorny skeleton of a bush, torn out by the roots God knows where behind: it would rush by, whirling and leaping like an aping buffoon. And nothing: not a drop of water, not a sign of life. Only dust, dust, dust, dust…

At times the clay under one’s feet would disappear and give way to some utter hash of stones and rocks. It was red-hot like in Hell. Here and there in the rushing clouds of dust giant cliffs would show – grayish-white as if powdered with flour. Wind and heat would give them the most incredible shapes, and it was terrifying seeing them like that, showing and vanishing like ghosts, playing their own hide-and-seek. Meanwhile the crushed stones would get bigger and bigger till they run out abruptly under one’s feet as they hit the clinking clay again.

The sun was in its zenith. A disk, copper in color from all the dust, was hanging in the middle of the whitish, fuzzy sky. Its appalling shadow was making faces, staring from underneath my feet: at times in a grayish, washed-down form, then virtually revving and regaining the sharpness of its contours, then swelling with blackness and becoming even more ugly. There was no road there, or in the vicinity. There was only some porous, grayish-yellow dry clay, all cracked, hard-trodden and hard as a stone. In addition, it was naked, making it a total mystery where such an amount of dust that had collected there had come from.

The wind, thank God, was blowing in my back. Somewhere far behind, it was sucking up uncountable tons of repulsive hot dust, and with dumb stubbornness dragging it down the sun-burnt protrusion between the chasm and the Yellow wall, either ejecting it up into the sky in a big perturbance, or again twisting it tightly into flexible, almost coquet-like, swan necks of tornadoes. Or, it I was swarming as a gusting roll, roaring and throwing piercing particles of flour at my sweaty back and into my hair, pounding like a wild animal against the back of my neck, hitting my hands and ears, filling the pockets with dust , and throwing dust behind my collar.

There wasn't anything there. Nothing had been been there for a long time, and maybe ever. The sun, clay and the wind. Only sporadically, grimacing like a clown, a thorny skeleton of some bush would hang in the air, jumping: one which had been torn out with its roots, only God knows where, somewhere far behind . Not a drop of water. No sign of life. And, only the dust, dust, dust, dust…

From time to time, the clay underneath my feet would disappear somewhere, and a land covered entirely with stones would start. Everything there was hot like in Hell. From left and right, taking turns, gigantic clouds of stones kept emerging from behind the balls of the travelling dust , gray, as if sprinkled with flour. The wind and the heat were giving them the most frightening and unexpected features. It was scary that they were appearing out of nowhere, and then suddenly disappearing like phantoms, literally playing hide and seek with one another. Then, the gavel underneath my feet started getting bigger and bigger to suddenly disappear. And, clay resounded underneath my feet.