. . . and Pushkin falls on bluish prickly snow. -Eduard BagritskyA silence. And no further word. An echo. And exhaustion. . . . His verses fluttered mutely to the ground, ending in blood. They gazed about them slowly, tenderly. They felt unjointed, cold, and strange. Above them stood the gray-haired doctors and the Seconds, bent and helpless. Above them stars still sang, and shuddered; above them the four winds grew still . . .