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Where does the beauty of the Russian land begin? C spring, which hits the keys on the hill, c stretching to the horizon of the golden field, noisy bread, or perhaps with the singing nightingales of the birch grove? This reflects the poet and writer Vladimir Soloukhin, dining in a peasant hut, collecting mushrooms on the edge of the forest, admiring the beauty of the ancient Rostov Kremlin. The ringing of the bells: “Russia, the Motherland, the people ...”
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