Bulgakov

Great was the year and terrible the Year of Our Lord 1918, the second since the Revolution had begun. Sun had been abundant in the summer, snow in the winter, and two stars had risen particularly high in the sky: Venus, the Evening Star; and Mars, red and quivering. But in years of peace and blood alike the days shoot by like arrows, and in the hard frost the young Turbins had not noticed the onset of shaggy white December. Oh, Father Frost, sparkling with snow and happiness! Mama, radiant queen! Where are you now?

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