Other stories, starting like a tragedy, last as a comedy, end like a farce. The reverse happens significantly less often. P.A. Dalberg It was November, or maybe March. Birds flew from south to north, from west to east, back and forth and how it hit. After the untimely death of the Generalissimo, nothing passed, but how it all changed. Winter that year turned out to be, as the common people used to say, orphan.