The wind whines and howls; there is bitterness in his breath. Growls and barks thunder, lightning with frantic force sink into the plateau of shining stones, even the shadows. The plateau, which knew the time of gloomy flourishing, was riddled with scars - traces of cataclysm. A sinuous crack cuts through the soil - exactly a laceration from a whip blow to the face. Here and there, tows of fog, painted in a thousand shades of gray and black; only in some places pathetic spots of other colors are noticeable.