At this time, Tashkent is beautiful, empty and silent; streets are wide and clean. It is a chilly morning despite the clear sky and bright sun. We go along several narrow streets and arrive at the small park close to the City Exhibition Hall. There are several nice sculptures which I remember since early childhood.
The little boy riding a horse is my favorite; as a child I believed them to be real. My mother showed them to me when I was very small... Where are they heading to? Most likely, to the land of dreams, some hidden realm so different from our routine life. It looks especially magical in the dim light; the joyous morning light today is too lively and happy for them. They belong to twilight and mist.
The wise man is counting stars, even when there is sun in the sky. For the one who has vision, time of the day does not matter; nor does the century.
As for these, I have no idea who they are. Age and moss make them look strange and noble.
This is my own sculpture - alive, breathing, smiling, wagging his tail - occupying someone's vacant pedestal. He copes with my whims in the most patient way; if I want to take photos today, he will keep company without complaints.
And Jager, wet and happy, steam breathing, amidst the grasses and flowers; there is still time to walk, run and enjoy life.