Maslenitsa! A small joy of a great people, a holiday of universal gluttony, long days of anticipation of a miracle. A feast in anticipation of summer. The night is getting shorter, and although the morning frost is still crackling, the echo of the approaching spring is already echoing in the midday rays of the sun. Brief happiness in the northern regions, a respite from the series of eternal darkness and cold. However, since ancient times they have gotten the hang of turning summer into a harvest season. In the season of suffering. But the suffering is yet to come. And it seems as if the forests will never begin to burn and the peat bogs will smoke, and the workers of the fields with their native nature, who are living out their days, will not fight for the harvest. Nature, as always, will defeat the workers. Moreover, oil pride and the ruling vertical will usually be on its side. The modest fruits of our native land will be pecked by crows in high cabinets, and the crumbs will fall on our table. We will bake a pancake from these crumbs. He is our share in the victory. But that doesn't matter now. Damn is triumphant. Displaces sadness and gloomy forebodings. Squeezes melancholy and fear to the bottom of the subconscious. And everything empty and idle recedes before its fullness that promises satiety. Damn there is the king of Russian food. Lord of the table. He represents the face and image of our land. Symbol and carnal embodiment of the soul. Covering the world and the circle of times. The pancake becomes a membrane. A transparent, but carnally perceptible border between the cold consciousness of winter and the flowing hot unconsciousness of summer. The sun will melt the brain, tear off the clothes and abolish the icy shackles of shame. Tall grass and country roads will hide the joys of yesterday's faithful husbands. But today their families are still strong. And snow queens amuse themselves with fidelity in the kitchens. Their loyalty will end in two weeks. Loyalty is winter. Ice is driven out by fire. The days of national gluttony are crowned by a dazzling auto-da-fé. We are burning through winter. And sprinkle the world with its ashes. Trying to scatter her blood-curdling cruelty to the wind. She is our sinner, our witch, our heretic. The time of darkness is the original sin of the northern regions. There is a harsh custom in this harsh land, and centuries ago living people were burned here. The winter was crowned by the burning of the elders. Those who were not taken by the cold were burned to death by their sons. Antiquity is merciless. Those who were weak and unviable were thrown from cliffs in infancy. Yesterday's heroes, who had lost their strength and became a burden, were taken on sleighs to the forest in the bitter cold and left as the gift of death. This was the only way the whole tribe survived. Summer is short, and there were never enough supplies for everyone. Only much later did the experience begin to gain value. Gave an excuse for weakness. He imposed a quitrent on his youth to support his old age. Maslenitsa is an ancient funeral feast. A feast for those who were carried away by the cold. For those whose bodies we handed over to the snowstorm. For mothers and fathers who, through their own deaths, corrected the death of their family. Giving young people a chance to live until spring. That time is irrevocably gone. But each new generation still strives to burn their fathers. We see reflections of hellfire in the eyes of our children. They want to inherit the world. And they don't want to wait too long. It was a special honor to be burned at the Maslenitsa bonfire. The privilege of leaders, great warriors and shamans. Their lives were maintained until the appointed hour, even if the body was weak. They took care of it and took care of it, giving them the best piece. They warmed the young maidens with warmth. The day will come, and their caresses will turn into tongues of fire. Yesterday's lovers will dance in a joyful round dance at the burning feet of the one they loved and caressed. And they will passionately give themselves to his young sons. Renewal of life requires sacrifice. Those dancing in a round dance know that at the appointed time they will offer their bodies to cold and fire. And they don't expect to live forever. But they know that fire and ice give new life. Because the sky is fire. Flame and wind, like two horses, will catch your spirit and carry you to the halls of the flaming gods. Or to the crystal castles of frost giants. Because of this, children know neither fear nor shame. They are already gods. New gods of this world. But first we must see off the old gods. Those who have already done their dance. The one who yesterday was the provider of food and the ruler of thoughts. But now it’s no longer needed. But he still has to play his main role. The elder was rejoiced with songs and anointed with oil. So that the flame gets stronger. Dressed in wreaths.