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The Golden Town



7.00 lv. Buy

     Over those crossed ridges the southerner was cool. The clouds often spilled with rumbles, the forest fizzed, conceived fire of snake-shaped lightnings, broken trunks pealed, a burd was falling down, others giddily rushed to the north valley. The air slowly cleared under their whisking wings, the waves of The Balkan were rounding, the precipices filled themselves and down and forward one sloping land flashed up, cut by valleys and entangled in a web of silver streams. Well known to the migratory ones this land was. Where the streams give one after the other their madness to the fast flowing river, could be seen as under turtle shell the houses of a small town. ...