Dobrudja

In infinite width at dawn racing wind, light and multi-handed, he whispers in his green petticoat and pearl every wheat. And summer turns it into gold, scattered in ripe, rich rye. The owner of the grain from the fields in the barn will gather for bread all. The farmer will shake wine, of the cake will break short. Facing, he will cross his forehead, in bowing it will make him mute to the curse. There, in Yovkov's stories, on the wires with swallows, at lunchtime, the spirits of the soldiers are raging perished in the past century. Messages are read in a column on poles over graves without a cross. The hot blood in her finger cooled, Bulgaria is measuring its growth today!