Bloody green fields and miracles countless among them, with eyes distant, with empty veins, crowded with centuries of dust. Legends about heroes you wear, for kings, families, and three seas. For your deeds, you pray for yourself, and they are downstairs - converted into pigs. Yesterday he was a maid in a village, today you are already old. What's wrong? What did two of you translate? What did you do from the first one? The heroes were doing well, which you yourself have created. Today they are gone, so you are not in front, not body, but you have died spiritually. Although forgotten, I still love you, your faithful son will be to the grave. With my words, my old lady will call until the day when a pop will sing above my ark. For you, I am a mother and a dear, and one you are for me. With you Rodino I will cross every threshold, Bulgaria, I'm chained to you with a gold bracelet.
