"A Banquet in the Time of the Plague", Fumino Pushkin's extraordinary name, is also a three-dimensional poetic drama that sparked numerous controversies in the Russian literary circles at that time.

In the face of the plague, do people choose to take to the streets to have fun like those teenagers and sing the praises of human fighting enthusiasm with high passion; or do they choose to convert to the teachings of the priests and, with a sad and heavy atmosphere, live in the temple?

Move forward under the light of ?

In fact, in a sense, it is not wrong to say that "A Banquet in the Time of the Plague" is a Renaissance-style work that echoes "The Decameron" after countless years.

Kitahara and Kaede thought this, and then heard Pushkin's thoughtful voice: "The great plague that started in 1830? Of course I know this."

After all, this has something to do with the name of his superpower.

“A banquet in the time of a plague”…

It seemed that I had some inspiration, but... no, the sentences that came to my mind were not good enough, it seemed like something was missing.

What was missing? Pushkin couldn't help but frown - he didn't realize that his expression at this moment was more focused than ever before, and he had even temporarily forgotten Natalia, who had made him unable to calm down for a long time. All his attention was completely

The whole earth was concentrated in the creation of poetry.

"When the mighty winter god,

Like a majestic leader,

Leading the shaggy-haired guards——

The cold and the white snow are waiting for us."

He raised his head in confusion and saw the young Asian opposite him supporting his chin with one hand, lighting the wine glass with the other hand, and chanting in a melodious tone:

"We greeted you with firecrackers in the fireplace,

Come and enliven the lively atmosphere of the winter banquet.”

This is……

Pushkin was slightly startled.

Before he even had time to think about the meaning of this passage, an unthinking, instinctive inspiration surged out unstoppably from the depths of his soul like a tide.

He had never had such an impulse, nor had he imagined that inspiration could have such a scorching temperature: these surging sparks almost instantly overwhelmed his entire thinking, causing every rational gear to seem

They were all making "click-click" noises under heavy pressure.

That's a warning from reason, a warning that emotions are out of control.

But strangely, he didn't feel afraid of his almost out-of-control situation. Maybe he had been waiting for this moment deep in his heart from the beginning.

——This is a moment of poetry.

He felt as if he was divided into two parts, one part had been washed away by such a violent tide, and the other part still barely maintained a relatively logical observation and self-analysis.

In such a strange state, he heard the second half of this poem read by himself:

"Plague, the majestic queen,

Now they don’t hesitate to praise us.

Desperately coveting the bountiful harvest;

The shovel digging the grave day and night,

Knocking on our windows and houses.

How are we? How can we be better?”

From the initial hesitation and delay in speaking, his words became smoother and smoother, blurting out as if he didn't need to think:

"Let us deal with the mischievous winter god,

Close the door to the plague—"

He didn't know that his eyes were shining with excitement and enthusiasm at the moment - those were the unique eyes of a person who was chasing what he loved, but there seemed to be a voice of destiny that told him that he already knew what he wanted.

What is it.

He wanted to capture this fiery and hot inspiration.

He wanted to capture poetry.

"Let us light the candles and fill the glasses with wine,

Let us have fun at all costs!

Host various banquets and banquets!

Come and praise the plague dynasty!"

Kitahara and Kaede opposite him blinked their orange-gold eyes, and then smiled very slightly.

The brilliant colors intertwined in the soul made it impossible for him to see the other person's expression, but many times, its expression was more direct than all words and symbols.

In another dimension that ordinary people cannot see, the golden brilliance is like a flame that has finally been ignited. It has become brighter than ever before. The blazing brilliance pours out, extremely bright and unobtrusive. It even makes people who have gradually

Travelers who are used to this kind of light find it a bit dazzling.

The sun... He thought of this word with some emotion, then moved his eyes away uncomfortably, drank the last bit of wine in the glass, and then became a bystander.

Kitahara and Kaede did not try to insert a word or two to guide this poem in the same direction as the previous life - of course there is no need to do so.

Although they are both Pushkin, no one said that they must create exactly the same works. What's more, although they do have the same name and certain characteristics, they are indeed two completely different people.

And this world is naturally the stage that belongs to this poet. Kitahara and Feng held their chins and looked at each other's performance, feeling quite proud.

Maybe this can also be regarded as witnessing history in a sense?

"I am happy to go to the battlefield and fight in person!

Be happy to face the abyss without fear!

Enjoy sailing on the roaring ocean——

Heavy dark clouds and rolling waves!

Enjoy the strong wind blowing people away from the direction!

Rejoice in the spread of the plague and its wanton rampage!”

Pushkin closed his eyes. Yes, he saw those terrible lives, those unknowns, fears and disasters.

But so what?

"Everything that threatens death,

In the hearts of people who regard death as home,

Just the arousal of indescribable pleasure—"

The budding poet, who has fully entered the state, took a deep breath, like a conductor directing an orchestra in front of the stage, raised his arms, and wrote a sonorous and powerful ending to the last section:

"Perhaps death will make him more remembered by history!

Only in fear and uneasiness,

Only then can he taste the happiness and joy of eternal life!”

This is the most passionate section of "Plague Ode" in "A Banquet in the Time of Plague". It is a declaration of war against plague and suffering as a human being, and it is a laugh and charge towards death and disaster.

It is called using the small power of human beings to break through the cage of disaster and misery.

Kitahara and Kaede casually filed and sorted out the books in their memory library, stuffed this article into the "Complete Works of Pushkin" they had just sorted, and then applauded in a dignified way.

"Snap, snap, snap!"

Everyone clapped as if they had just woken up from a dream, and looked at him with surprise and admiration. Occasionally, there were also some whispers of "I feel great" and "Is this a poet who came to Moscow?"

This was probably the noisiest time in this bar. The "White Birch Forest" played in the bar was completely drowned out by all kinds of sounds, but no one objected to this - after all, this poem was enough to conquer them.

Already.

The Slavic people have always had artistic sensitivity and talent far beyond the imagination of most foreigners. And the most passionate passage in "A Banquet in the Time of Plague" is indeed very touching to these people who are always full of enthusiasm and fighting spirit - especially in the

Last year, the supernatural war had just ended.

Sure enough, some things are still classics even if the era has changed, even though the background of this era fits this poem quite well...

Kitahara and Kaede turned the empty cups in their hands, thinking this with some emotion.

"Huh?" Pushkin, who had temporarily calmed down from the wave of inspiration, opened his eyes again in confusion, and then he saw that the entire bar had been looking at him at some point, and they all applauded him sincerely.

Who am I, where am I, what am I doing? Why are so many people looking at me?

"You read poetry too loudly." Kitahara and Kaede put down their wine glasses and replied in a brisk tone, "How about it? Let me just say that you are very suitable for writing poetry, right?"

"..."

Pushkin didn't want to talk, and after he really calmed down from his overly excited emotions, Pushkin just wanted to find a place to die.

What is social death? This is called social deathjpg

Mr. Traveler smiled and held his chin up to admire the poet's rare embarrassment for a while. After a little satisfaction of his own bad taste, he stretched out his hand to straighten his scarf, and then put his hand back into his pocket.

Let’s go, let’s go. I’ve seen what I need to see, and I’ve done everything I can do. As for the rest... this is not something that an ordinary, vulgar and salty traveler like him should face.

Beihara and Feng thought so, then put the cups aside, stood up and left.
To be continued...