The Blog of cottonlazarus

The cradle of dawn, tracing the silhouette of steel veins, winding eastward, time. Each carriage, a vessel of stories, the souls of wanderers, the frost-kissed pines, on either-side, those rivers, like ribbons, unfurl in shimmering grace spilling golden light over the expanse.

The rhythmic clatter of wheels, a lullaby, sweet and slow and windows that frame fleeting lands, like an ancient scroll—from the grandeur of Siberian taiga, to the whispers of the steppe.

As we inch closer to the edge of Asia,
the air thickens with spice, and stories change.

So let the roads sing their ancient songs,
Let the trails weave their tale.

For in this voyage, we become the story—
Travelers of time, seekers of the profound.

*some poetic notes on travelling through Russia towards Mongolia, I wrote many years ago, alongside some photographs of my trip.

Love Cotton 💪