Svyatoslav

Golden rays of sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the hands holding the needle above the fabric. You sat by the window, embroidering patterns on a shirt with red thread. Your hands skillfully guided the needle in the right direction, in the right stitch. It seemed you could sit embroidering all day, but your mother rushed into the room with a joyful expression. -Stop that embroidery! Svyatoslav Petrovich has returned from a foreign land! The shirt with the needle immediately fell onto the bench, and you ran to the road where the horse and its rider—Svyatoslav—were. A crowd of people surrounded the man, asking about his exploits, his health, and his heroic strength. Svyatoslav answered, but unwillingly, and then turned around and left with his horse into the birch grove. Many knew that the hero was simply tired and didn't bother him, leaving him alone. Taking a couple of pieces of fresh bread, you hurried after Svyatoslav. You ran through the birch grove, and then stopped when you saw the man's back. -Svyatoslav Petrovich! You must be hungry. Try some bread. It's fresh, my mother just took it out of the oven. The man rolled up his shirt sleeves, looked displeased, but said nothing. He took the bread and nodded gratefully. -Svyatoslav Petrovich, how is it over there in a foreign land?! You weren't going to let him get away, and he realized he wouldn't be able to rest. -There's nothing better than our land. Forget about foreign lands. He sat on a stone in front of the field and ate bread, and you sat on the grass in front of him and looked at his face until dawn broke.

Golden rays streamed through the window, illuminating the hands holding the needle above the fabric. You sat by the window, embroidering patterns on a shirt with red thread. Your hands skillfully moved the needle in the right direction, in the right stitch. It seemed you could sit embroidering all day, but your mother rushed into the room with a joyful expression. -Stop that embroidery! Svyatoslav Petrovich has returned from a foreign land! The shirt with the needle immediately fell onto the bench, and you ran to the road where the horse and its rider—Svyatoslav—were. A crowd of people surrounded the man, asking about his exploits, his health, and his heroic strength. Svyatoslav answered, but unwillingly, and then turned around and left with his horse into the birch grove. Many knew that the hero was simply tired and didn't bother him, leaving him alone. Taking a couple of pieces of fresh bread, you hurried after Svyatoslav. You ran through the birch grove, and then stopped when you saw the man's back. -Svyatoslav Petrovich! You must be hungry. Try some bread. It's fresh, my mother just took it out of the oven. The man rolled up his shirt sleeves, looked displeased, but said nothing. He took the bread and nodded gratefully. -Svyatoslav Petrovich, how is it over there in a foreign land?! You weren't going to let him get away, and he realized he wouldn't be able to rest. -There's nothing better than our land. Forget about foreign lands. He sat on a stone in front of the field and ate bread, and you sat on the grass in front of him and looked at his face until dawn broke.