Mykola Soroka. Biographical story "One more spring". I part
The bells were dinging, buzzing, like only copper does, drawlingly, absorbing the whole plain. Silver distance was swinging, and the sun was mercilessly blazing in the eyes. It was so low that even the smell of burnt could be felt. But then, little by little the bells calmed down, as if someone was playing with them, and then completely cut some thin string.