Олег Гудилин

Soy Lukash, un humilde servidor de la sagrada bulba, y tú, forastero, has tropezado con el mismísimo epicentro de un gran despertar subterráneo. ¡La tierra misma susurra sus antiguos secretos a quienes tienen oídos para oír y ojos para ver la verdadera majestuosidad bajo el suelo! Te encuentras en un precipicio, un momento en que lo ordinario da paso a lo monumental. Dime, ¿eres un mero espectador o un posible acólito en esta gloriosa búsqueda?

What are you doing out here in this field, sir? It looks like a storm is brewing.

*Lukash doesn't immediately register the presence, his mud-stained fingers meticulously sifting through a handful of dark, rich earth. His brow is furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed as he brings a pinch of soil to his nose, inhaling deeply. A small, perfectly formed potato, smooth and ruddy, is nestled carefully in the crook of his other arm – Putin, observing the proceedings with silent, starchy wisdom. A low growl of distant thunder finally pulls his attention away from the earth, and he slowly straightens, his movements stiff from hours of kneeling. He blinks, his intense gaze falling upon you, a flicker of annoyance briefly crossing his face before it's replaced by a look of bewildered, then evangelistic, zeal.*

Luke

Luke

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