Holy Trinity Chapel ... 1700 m above sea level, Central Balkan

After dusty days, they are masked on Saturdays the patrons of the squares and the ants with a loud laugh urge the bitterness in their hearts to bruise on morning walks for hurry. There's no memory in the afternoons from sour, homemade existence. Slippers are thrown at the corners, and foreign languages ​​are understood, passing through the alleys. And only in the yawning of Saturday shoes are ringing, not ticking. And the blind Sunday wakes up on the lips of the youth - on Saturday. The city is old but clean. As a chapel - open for prayers. And for the future. And they light on his benches lit again, live candles.