Today Sofia is so mysterious and gentle - like a dusky island in lunar silver waters, and over her dim comb, as if in pain, hopeless, melt in a thin pair of pale autumn stars. And huge and breathless, hidden in his granite groove thousands of people shattered - the festive city dies and under the strange cloak of a strange whisper he tells tell the discomfiture of everyday masquerade. And there was a noise in the street, under electric garlands, here's the little flower girl rushing from locale to locale, where the orchestras spill flowing rhythmic sounds and as if hidden grief and sorrow drew from them. With a look embarrassed and damp on the ousted mermaid she steps between the tables and offers a timid suggestion: golden yellow chrysanthemums.