THIS IS LILIA’S OPINION ON ENGLISH BULGARIAN AND ON SPANISH Good morning, my dear friends and readers I woke up this morning with big news for people who had the guts to make it to America, swimming, walking, or crawling. Trump may be an idiot and anything people call him, but I want to believe he could also be a sneaky genius. With his recent orders, he said he tries to create equality in the world! But we women know that impotence can't be described as equality. Simply, because the impotence has always been less of a problem for poor men than for those like Trump! The poor men won't worry; they will drink and forget about it. So, stay with me because it is a complicated matter I will try to clarify. We don't discuss now equality between blacks and whites people, or between different nationalities here! The hated President Trump, in the continent we all love, may have made all those threats of deportation to scare you to death. And this way, he tries to put all men's love-making tools at position 6:30, so they could have equity, with his not working anymore dick. But don't forget, guys, for a moment, that Trump's mania is to be filthy rich and famous. So, maybe with this move, he wants to kill two rabbits with one bullet. If he fails as president, he could at least become famous for lowering the global birth rate. What do you think about that?

Събудих се тази сутрин с голяма новина за хората, които са имали смелостта да стигнат до Америка, плувайки, ходейки или пълзейки. Тръмп може да е идиот и както го наричат хората, но искам да вярвам, че може да бъде и хитър гений. С последните си заповеди той каза, че се опитва да създаде равенство в Америка и света! Но ние, жените, знаем, че импотентността не може да се опише като равенство. Просто защото импотентността винаги е била по-малък проблем за бедните мъже, отколкото за такива като Тръмп! Бедните мъже няма да се тревожат; ще пият и ще забравят за това. Така че, останете с мен, защото това е сложен въпрос, който ще се опитам да изясня. Сега не обсъждаме равенството между чернокожи и бели хора или между различните националности тук! Омразният президент Тръмп, на континента, който всички обичаме, може би е отправил всички тези заплахи за депортиране, за да ви уплаши до смърт. И по този начин той се опитва да постави всички инструменти за правене на любов на мъжете на позиция 6:30, за да могат да имат равенство, с неговия вече неработещ пенис. Но не забравяйте, хора, за момент, че манията на Тръмп е да бъде богат и известен. Така че, може би с този ход той иска да убие два заека с един куршум. Ако се провали като президент, поне би могъл да стане известен с намаляването на раждаемостта в световен мащаб. Какво мислите за това?

Buenos días, queridos amigos y lectores. Esta mañana me desperté con una gran noticia para las personas que tuvieron agallas y llegaron a Estados Unidos de alguna manera, nadando, caminando o arrastrándose. Tramp puede ser cualquier cosa que la gente le llame, pero quiero creer que también podría ser un genio astuto. Con sus recientes órdenes, ¡dijo que intenta crear igualdad en Estados Unidos y en el mundo! Pero las mujeres sabemos que la impotencia no se puede definir como igualdad. ¡Simplemente porque la impotencia siempre ha sido un problema menor para los hombres pobres que para los ricos como Trump! Los hombres pobres no la padecen, beben y se olvidan. Así que, quédense conmigo, porque este es un tema complejo que intentaré aclarar. ¡No estamos hablando de igualdad entre personas blancas y negras ni entre diferentes nacionalidades! Elodiado presidente, en el continente que todos amamos, puede haber hecho todas estas amenazas de deportación para asustarlos a muerte. Y así, para poner a todos los instrumentos masculinos para el sexo en la posición de las 6:30, para que tengan igualdad con su miembro que solo le sirve para orinar. Pero recuerden, chicos, por un momento que la obsesión de Trump es ser muy rico y famoso. Así que tal vez con esta jugada quiera matar dos pájaros de un tiro. Si fracasa como presidente, al menos podría ser conocido por reducir la tasa de natalidad mundial. ¿Qué opinan de eso?

A ROSE WAS DYING It was a dirt country road wound behind the house, where the single mother and her sick child were. The belated, tired passenger dragging his feet on the windy road stopped. He surveyed the sleeping village. He, noticing the only house still with the light on, walked confidently toward it. He knocked between the child's cries and the woman's soothing words, and when he heard no answer, pushed and opened the door. The surprised woman made a cross in the air, but the older man greeted her politely and asked her if she would shelter him for the night. The young woman hesitated momentarily, but when she saw that her child had calmed down, she confidently shared her fear that she may lose her sick little boy. The man removed his hood, approached the swing, gently touched the ill child's forehead, and smiled. "We have been suffering from cold, hunger, and insomnia for a month," the mother admitted, crying inconsolably. The stranger took out a piece of dry bread, dipped it into the glass of water, and placed it in the hand of the child, who eagerly sucked it. Then he picked up the old blanket, covered her shoulders with it, and advised her: "Woman, I'll take care of your sick boy so you can sleep a little!" the mother relaxed and fell asleep. At dawn, she was awakened by the sudden onset of cold. She looked anxiously for her boy, but there was no sign of the passenger or her child. Terrified, the mother runs barefoot on the empty street, hoping to catch the abductor and save her child. But as long she could see no live soul on the road, she started running nonstop. She no longer felt any cold or pain, but she realized she was at a crossroads at one point. She started crying, wondering which road to go on, when she heard a human voice. The scared mother looked around, and when she saw no one, she turned to the rosehip, which was shaking its icy bare stems: "Please, anyone tell me if anyone saw an old man passing on this road with my child in his arms.” The voice replied that the older man who had taken her child was THE DEATH ITSELF, and the rosehip asked the crying mother what she would give her in return. The woman pointed to her barefoot and the rags she was dressed with and begged again for mercy while the rosehip laughed mockingly and said: "Woman, if you embrace my icy branches, the thorns will sink into your flesh, and you will repay me for the favor by warming me." The mother garb the thorny bush, pressed into the emaciated body with all her might, and asked anxiously: " Please tell me which road to go to?" Suddenly, Mother was surprised at how fluffy white flowers appeared on the still-bleeding twigs. And then she heard the voice again: "The life of your sick child is in your hands now! But you could prevent your boy's death if you run faster without stopping." The grief-stricken woman ran down the icy road but soon found herself at a crossroads again, sat on the roadside stone, and wept in despair. Ga! Ga! Ga!… The black raven croaked, landed on the ground, danced in front of her, and suddenly asked with a human voice: "Why are you crying woman?" The mother was startled but quickly replied that Death had taken her sick little boy, whom she tried to save but didn't know which road they went to. The bird spread its wings as if to fly away, and then she asked the mother what she would get in return if she told her. The mother pointed to her bare legs and the old, bloodied dress and started crying. But the raven did not back down and indignantly rebuked her: “How can you say you have nothing to give me? If you want to prevent the death of your boy, give me your beautiful shiny hair!" With all her might, the mother grabbed the lush hair, pulled it, and gave it to the bird. The raven took them and said only to the mother: "Follow me!" she started running after the flying bird, hoping to catch up with Death. She ran with her bare, frozen feet and felt no pain. But after a while, the raven disappeared from her sight, and she became hopeless again. This time, she found himself on the shores of a lake and bent down to take a sip of water, but she saw her reflection in the water. The mother was frightened but saw the approaching colossal wave at that moment. She stepped back, wondering how she would cross this water. Suddenly, the moon appeared, and she saw the outlines of the far shore. This time, she heard a deep, soothing voice: “Don't cry, am the lake, and I will help you to prevent the death of your boy, but what will you give for the favor? "What can I give you?" Don't you see that I have nothing? ” “You have a lot to give me! Look at those big eyes of yours. They can glow on my shore like two headlights at night. Cry a little more, and they will fall on their own, and after that, I will take you to the other side of the lake. The mother left her eyes to shine like two lighthouses on the lake's shore. The waves grabbed her, and in an instant, the barefoot, naked without any hair on her head and blind, she appeared before the man she was chasing, The Death itself. He took her hand and led her to the divine garden while she was pegging him to take her to her sick son, and he replied that he would show her the child, but she had to decide whether to save him. "You can't see, but somehow you make it to the divinely beautiful place - “The Garden of Eden," explains the Death to the disfigured Mother. "Come with me and look through this window. Now, even when you are blind, you can see your child's fate. Indeed, the mother saw the huge bright room in which some little boy of her son's age dressed in expensive clothes was playing hoppy with a kitten. A young woman approached him, hugged him with love, and carried him to the table full of treats and fresh fruit. The Death took the dumbfounded mother by the hand and led her to the nearby window, telling her to look inside. The mother smells the familiar stench of dampness and mold, and she realizes he showed the gloomy, cold room at her home. She even heard her little hungry boy crying and started weeping inconsolably.” "This garden, which stretches in front of us, is planted with flowers, and there is a heartbeat under each flower. If you recognize the heartbeat of your little boy, you could save him. The mother ran toward the garden, stopping before a freshly planted bush with a single rose. She threw himself on the ground, listened, instinctively grabbed the flower, tore it off, and pressed the rose to her bloodied chest, hoping to save her child's pain. Whenever my mother told us about this sad fairytale, I felt like I was everywhere with the mother and the boy. I even shivered from the cold, and my sister and I always cried when we heard the sad ending, but it seemed like every time, we hoped something would change and the end would be different. We asked Mom why the mother had killed the child and not saved him after recognizing his heartbeat. She patiently explained that the mother loved her sick child and, out of love, found Death. But she plucked the rose to save him from pain and misery when she saw how the other children lived and how her ill child was suffering. That night, for the first time, I thought about my mother's words and realized that my sister and I lived in close misery to those of these poor people, and I even saw myself in the place of the poor dying child. But when I heard Mom talking to Dad and laughing, and instead of wishing us good night, she sang, and I calmed down. During the night, when my parents fell asleep, I was thinking, and I was even scared. I jumped between mom and dad, and when I felt their even breathing, I felt thrilled to have loving parents. From that day on, I understood that poverty leads people to misery, and I did not want us to be so poor. It was the last time I asked my mother to tell us the story of the dying rose because a lot of love and care surrounded us, and I already knew that I would always be happy, prosperous, and wealthy no matter when. More than half a century has passed since that day. My father died soon after my husband. I took my two children to America, where I promised them peace and prosperity. But our fate was predetermined because in a ridiculous accident, I lost my 28-year-old son Philip, and only a week after his burial, our mother died. My daughter married a Moroccan man she met at her brother's funeral. Unaware that it would serve as a springboard into the life of a con man, my daughter devoted her life entirely to her family and gave birth to two boys, who became the victims of a premeditated crime. I want to explain that our family tragedy has not broken me or my daughter, and I believe we found and saved our boys, Zach and Soleil. On this occasion, I have changed the ending of this sad tale and dedicate it entirely to all mothers and fathers whose children have been abducted by some known or unknown criminal. The mother grabbed the thorn bush, pressed the rose with all her remaining strength to her bloodied breast, and suddenly, in her arms appeared a healthy and smiling baby, and she thanked the Death for sparing them and restoring her sick boy's health, her sight, and her beautiful hair.

UNA ROSA ESTABA MURIENDO Había un camino rural de tierra que serpenteaba detrás de la casa, donde estaban la madre soltera y su hijo enfermo. El pasajero tardío y cansado que arrastraba los pies por la carretera sinuosa se detuvo. Observó la aldea dormida. Él, al notar la única casa que aún tenía la luz encendida, caminó confiado hacia ella. Llamó a la puerta entre los llantos del niño y las palabras tranquilizadoras de la mujer, y al no escuchar respuesta, empujó y abrió la puerta. La mujer sorprendida hizo una cruz en el aire, pero el hombre mayor la saludó cortésmente y le preguntó si lo albergaría por la noche. La joven dudó un momento, pero cuando vio que su hijo se había calmado, compartió con confianza su temor de perder a su pequeño enfermo. El hombre se quitó la capucha, se acercó al columpio, tocó suavemente la frente del niño enfermo y sonrió. "Llevamos un mes sufriendo frío, hambre e insomnio", admite la madre llorando desconsoladamente. El desconocido sacó un trozo de pan seco, lo mojó en el vaso de agua y lo puso en la mano del niño, que lo chupó con avidez. Luego tomó la vieja manta, le cubrió los hombros y le aconsejó: "¡Mujer, yo cuidaré a tu niño enfermo para que puedas dormir un poco!" la madre se relajó y se quedó dormida. Al amanecer, la despertó un repentino frío. Buscó ansiosamente a su hijo, pero no había señales del pasajero ni de su hijo. Aterrorizada, la madre corre descalza por la calle vacía, con la esperanza de atrapar al secuestrador y salvar a su hijo. Pero como no pudo ver ningún alma viva en el camino, empezó a correr sin parar. Ya no sentía frío ni dolor, pero se dio cuenta de que en un momento dado se encontraba en una encrucijada. Comenzó a llorar, preguntándose qué camino tomar, cuando escuchó una voz humana. La madre asustada miró a su alrededor y, al no ver a nadie, se volvió hacia la rosa mosqueta, que agitaba sus helados tallos desnudos: “Por favor, que alguien me diga si alguien vio pasar por este camino a un anciano con mi niño en brazos”. La voz respondió que el hombre mayor que se había llevado a su hijo era LA MUERTE MISMA, y la rosa mosqueta preguntó a la madre llorando qué le daría a cambio. La mujer la señaló descalza y los harapos con los que estaba vestida y volvió a suplicar clemencia mientras la rosa mosqueta reía burlonamente y decía: "Mujer, si abrazas mis ramas heladas, las espinas se clavarán en tu carne, y me pagarás el favor calentándome". La madre se vistió con el arbusto espinoso, apretó con todas sus fuerzas el cuerpo demacrado y preguntó ansiosamente: "Por favor, dígame ¿qué camino tomar?" La desconsolada mujer corrió por el camino helado, pero pronto se encontró nuevamente en una encrucijada, se sentó en la piedra del borde del camino y lloró desesperada. ¡Georgia! ¡Georgia! ¡Ga!… El cuervo negro graznó, aterrizó en el suelo, bailó frente a ella y de repente preguntó con voz humana: "¿Por qué lloras mujer?" La madre se sobresaltó pero rápidamente respondió que la Muerte se había llevado a su pequeño niño enfermo, a quien intentó salvar pero no sabía hacia qué camino se dirigían. El pájaro extendió sus alas como si fuera a volar y luego le preguntó a la madre qué recibiría a cambio si se lo contaba. La madre se señaló las piernas desnudas y el vestido viejo y ensangrentado y empezó a llorar. Pero el cuervo no retrocedió y la increpó indignado: “¿Cómo puedes decir que no tienes nada que darme? ¡Si quieres evitar la muerte de tu hijo, dame tu hermoso cabello brillante!" Con todas sus fuerzas, la madre agarró el exuberante cabello, lo jaló y se lo dio al pájaro. El cuervo los tomó y le dijo sólo a la madre: "¡Sígueme!" Ella comenzó a correr detrás del pájaro volador, con la esperanza de alcanzar a la Muerte. Corrió con los pies descalzos y congelados y no sintió dolor. Pero después de un tiempo, el cuervo desapareció de su vista y volvió a perder la esperanza. Esta vez, se encontró a orillas de un lago y se inclinó para tomar un sorbo de agua, pero vio su reflejo en el agua. La madre se asustó pero en ese momento vio acercarse la colosal ola. Dio un paso atrás, preguntándose cómo cruzaría esta agua. De repente, apareció la luna y vio los contornos de la orilla lejana. Esta vez escuchó una voz profunda y tranquilizadora: "No llores, soy el lago y te ayudaré a evitar la muerte de tu hijo, pero ¿qué darás por el favor? "¿Qué puedo darte?" ¿No ves que n La madre dejó que sus ojos brillaran como dos faros a la orilla del lago. Las olas la agarraron, y en un instante, descalza, desnuda, sin pelo en la cabeza y ciega, apareció ante el hombre que perseguía, la propia Muerte. Él la tomó de la mano y la condujo al jardín divino mientras ella le pedía que la llevara con su hijo enfermo, y él respondió que le mostraría al niño, pero que ella tenía que decidir si salvarlo. "No puedes ver, pero de alguna manera llegas a ese lugar divinamente hermoso: "El Jardín del Edén", explica la Muerte a la Madre desfigurada. "Ven conmigo y mira por esta ventana. Ahora, incluso cuando estés ciego, podrás ver el destino de tu hijo. En efecto, la madre vio la enorme habitación luminosa en la que un niño de la edad de su hijo, vestido con ropas caras, jugaba al lúpulo. con un gatito. Una joven se acercó a él, lo abrazó con amor y lo llevó a la mesa llena de golosinas y fruta fresca. La Muerte tomó a la estupefacta madre de la mano y la llevó a la ventana cercana, diciéndole que mirara hacia adentro. "La madre huele el familiar hedor a humedad y moho, y se da cuenta de que él le mostró la habitación fría y sombría de su casa. Incluso escuchó llorar a su pequeño hambriento y comenzó a llorar desconsoladamente". "Este jardín que se extiende frente a nosotros está lleno de flores, y debajo de cada flor hay un latido del corazón. Si reconoces el latido del corazón de tu pequeño, podrás salvarlo. La madre corrió hacia el jardín, deteniéndose ante un Un arbusto recién plantado con una sola rosa, se arrojó al suelo, escuchó, instintivamente agarró la flor, la arrancó y apretó la rosa contra su pecho ensangrentado, esperando salvar el dolor de su hijo. Cada vez que mi madre nos contaba este triste cuento de hadas, sentía que estaba en todas partes con la madre y el niño. Incluso temblaba de frío, y mi hermana y yo siempre llorábamos cuando escuchábamos el triste final, pero parecía que cada vez esperábamos que algo cambiara y que el final fuera diferente. Le preguntamos a mamá por qué había matado al niño y no lo había salvado después de reconocer los latidos de su corazón. Pacientemente explicó que la madre amaba a su hijo enfermo y, por amor, encontró la Muerte. Pero ella arrancó la rosa para salvarlo del dolor y la miseria al ver cómo vivían los demás niños y cómo sufría su hijo enfermo. Esa noche, por primera vez, pensé en las palabras de mi madre y me di cuenta de que mi hermana y yo vivíamos en una miseria cercana a la de esta pobre gente, e incluso me vi en el lugar del pobre niño moribundo. Pero cuando escuché a mamá hablar con papá y reírse, y en lugar de desearnos buenas noches, cantó y me calmé. Durante la noche, cuando mis padres se dormían, yo pensaba y hasta tenía miedo. Salté entre mamá y papá, y cuando sentí su respiración tranquila, me sentí emocionado de tener padres amorosos. A partir de ese día entendí que la pobreza lleva a la gente a la miseria y no quería que seamos tan pobres. Fue la última vez que le pedí a mi madre que nos contara la historia de la rosa moribunda porque nos rodeaba mucho amor y cuidado, y ya sabía que siempre sería feliz, próspera y rica sin importar cuándo. Ha pasado más de medio siglo desde aquel día. Mi padre murió poco después de mi marido. Llevé a mis dos hijos a Estados Unidos, donde les prometí paz y prosperidad. Pero nuestro destino estaba predeterminado porque en un ridículo accidente perdí a mi hijo Philip, de 28 años, y solo una semana después de su entierro, nuestra madre murió. Mi hija se casó con un marroquí que conoció en el funeral de su hermano. Sin saber que esto serviría de trampolín hacia la vida de un estafador, mi hija dedicó toda su vida a su familia y dio a luz a dos niños, que fueron víctimas de un crimen premeditado. Quiero explicar que nuestra tragedia familiar no nos ha destrozado a mí ni a mi hija, y creo que encontramos y salvamos a nuestros hijos, Zach y Soleil. En esta ocasión he cambiado el final de este triste cuento y lo dedico íntegramente a todas las madres y padres cuyos hijos han sido secuestrados por algún criminal conocido o desconocido. La madre agarró el espino, apretó la rosa con todas las fuerzas que le quedaban contra su pecho ensangrentado, y de repente, en sus brazos apareció un bebé sano y sonriente, y agradeció a la Muerte por perdonarlos y devolverle la salud a su hijo enfermo, su vista. y su hermoso cabello.

BEYOND REALITY Green and endless was spreading out by the freeway – Enveloped in mystery, there was a place called Forest Lawn. I felt the hand of the Lord, who made me stop there. Baby, you and I’ll meet for sure in Heaven someday. It was after I realized that I actually love you, I signed a contract with myself to ask you, Did I make your days with me distinctive? Or did I bring only countless worries and pain? Please, my love, don't blame me now because I exchanged the cozy motel room for graves, Without even asked you, would you like to lie by my side there with me, or you would prefer to fly all alone between The Heaven and Earth, like a free bird, which I believed you are? The love balm, you poured into me these years, You preserve my body and my feelings forever. And at the time of our first encounter, in Heaven, You will recognize me among the crowd in a blink. It will be me, and only you will see me Paco as the ray of sunshine for you in the darkness. With no words, but only with my eyes will tell you How much all that time you Paco, meant to me. And I know that you will forgive all my sins Even that secret ceremony I created for us now. I’ll drop the marriage veil before my eyes, but my presence and hunger for love for you will remain, telling - I will love you forever!

WHAT IS STILL THE LOVE FOR ME TODAY When I'm with you, I feel happy and needed, and want to stay in this world longer than before. You, my love, never expected me to be a sinless woman. That's why I want you to know that the sweet pain we experienced long ago together, actually, never left me. If you asked me now, how I live all this time without you I will be truthful and confess to you that even in your absence and silence, I still feel that magnetic attraction force between me and you. It is the same power that moves, builds, and destroys. Does it live in us, or does it seek some justice or aspire to its strange laws, no matter who will hurt! To stop this immeasurable confusion, I need to ask you many questions for which you only have the correct answers. I told you, I was all alone but never felt lonely all this time! I was still heartbroken, and you came and, in a blink, with a single hug, restored my desire for self-love, freedom, and unexpected new adventure with you. I am aware of sacrifices you have overcome to be with me. But you knew that it was never easy to love me the way I am with you. "I appreciate your life", you said when you left me last. Yes, now you are in my soul, like long-awaited anxiety And you would be the not-taken arrow from my heart forever, but if I could be even for a moment in your embrace, I would be fine for some time all alone again. In wealth, in poverty, in height, and in lows, I take it without a doubt, whatever God has for you and me, I will be next to you when you need me for good time, or to take you out of a bottomless abyss or deep sleep.

4/22/2020 This morning, when I woke up, I remembered that last night, 3 minutes after "The Earth day" had passed, there was a reminder that there were earthquakes that were more severe than the viruses that currently concern us. I opened the computer and this time I was angry with myself, that I still hope that I have not been forgotten and even thought who was thinking at that moment about parasites like us - retirees. But at that moment, I decided to seek an explanation for the anomaly that our people were in and that not only the intelligentsia but also the journalists were subjected to the same attitude. I bet most people who earned their benefits through hard work, like me, opened their bank accounts this morning and are still wondering where the hell the promised money is. Guys, I will remind you that Trump is facing an anomalous dilemma: whether to sign or put his full name on the checks we are waiting for. And here comes the moment when the cup of patience is pouring over for normal people. Because Trump is an egomaniac who tries to rob us of our remaining dignity unpunished with his stupid actions. People know me as an honest and caring person by nature, and this morning, when I saw the news, I decided to help a sick person in need this time. But first, I want to ask my and your fellow citizens, insane with fear, insecurity, and hunger, whether anyone cares whether Kim Jung-un or Trump is alive or dead. Specifying my personal opinion on the matter, I want to share my idea that Trump will not only perpetuate himself as a one-of-a-kind president, but also that, probably, the only way to calm himself down is to have some golf time. To clarify, my idea was born of impasse and national pride as an American of choice. It is clear to everyone that to satisfy his maniacal, sick desires and gain time, Trump deliberately engages the people with simplicity and checks our patience. So I came to the conclusion that he would not surprise anyone with how much he cares about small businesses, such as those who make tattoos in America. Yes, if he announces tomorrow that all American citizens, as a symbol of loyalty, are required to tattoo his name on his left hand, it will give many people jobs. I want to know what happens to these hardworking people who will be deprived of their right to become American citizens these two months. No problem he figured out how to vote for him out of gratitude by overturning his decision. We all drink water from the same blemish before we reach the great opportunities we choose. It is created by educated, intelligent, awake people like us, and no one can manipulate us. Reminding us of the essential details about street criminals, I would say I wouldn't be surprised if he obliges the people who won't vote for him to have a tattoo on their foreheads. 11/10/2025 I think that my last advice to him will be the best outcome of the situation. If Trump and Putin have the guts and commit suicide without too much fuss, I think they will deserve the party we will throw for them as our last affection to both of them.

SUNLAND CALIFORNIA The fragrance of coffee reached me, and the man beside me stirred. I could hear Rummy's calm tone telling Rumen and Philip to be careful not to hurt the cat during wrestling, and they were laughing. Everything that reached my hearing convinced me I was not dreaming. My daughter and Connie are chatting, and I was definitely at my girlfriend’s house with my whole family. I got frightened that I might miss a day of my freedom and dressed up fast, entered the living room, and greeted everybody there playfully: “Good morning, Americans! I prayed daily in Bulgaria to survive until I saw my children free, but now have to admit I like to prolong my life. I hope it’s not too much to ask for five more years?” Rummy offered me a cup of coffee and a menthol cigarette when she saw the empty box I opened. I made a joke: “I hooked you on KENT menthol. What happened? “Unfortunately, they are not popular in America.” “Then, I better go, explore the new place and find it for you.” ”Zaek, you are in the valley now, and while coming from snowy Austria, remember that you need time to adjust! Third days in a row the temperatures are 110 degrees.” “Girlfriend, this sounds not as a warning but as not a bad idea for adventure to me!” I said and left to buy cigarettes. The hot air was vibrating in front of my eyes, and the street was deserted as far as I could see. The asphalt was scorching, and at that point, I realized that I was barefoot and walking on my tiptoes. Fully absorbed by lovely gardens on both sides of the street, I suddenly found myself on the main street in Sunland. What I noticed first wasn't very encouraging. The few men that I saw seemed ordinary peasants, and these thoughts brought me back down to the earth, and even as I heard my father telling me: ”Don’t you see, Lilly, you are not in Beverly Hills! Sunland is a village, and no matter where you go, the Villagers are the same”. Hearing his voice somehow woke me up, and I remembered that I had torn more than six pairs of iron shoes by the time I got here. It won't be easy, but I must try to find the stairs to the society from this village I want to be in. Thinking so positively, I entered a small shop called “SEVEN ELEVEN” and lost my breath with surprise. The place was cold, and it seemed dark and unattractive. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and substantial, dead spiders and bats trapped in them. The man and woman behind the counter were dressed in rags, with faces so contorted and twisted they looked like masks. I stopped, still in shock, thinking I had forgotten why I was there. I wondered if I was in one of those places described by Truman Capote where cold-blooded killers hang out. Or was this just some kind of nightmare? The two people behind the counter smiled when they saw me looking for the door. Suddenly, I heard dragging feet, and when I turned around, I saw a woman dressed in rags, holding a newborn baby in one hand and a gallon of milk in the other. What I saw was too much for my wild imagination. Everything was so strange. "Why did she carry milk and not a bottle of red wine for the little monster?" I thought, but thank God I was already at the door, when a young man entered and greeted us with a friendly smile: “Happy Halloween, guys!” Eventually, I realized everything was fine, and I calmed down. People were celebrating some holiday. I went back to the counter and asked for a pack of cigarettes, and the lady asked me nicely: “Where are you from, honey? “At that point, I replied confidently: “From Sunland, but I don't know how long I'll stay!" I picked up the cigarettes and some coins from the counter and dived back into the heat outside. Yes, I was in Sunland, California, and it was a typical day for everyone else but not for me. As soon as I stepped outside, I lit a cigarette and almost choked on it, and I was forced to extinguish it. The left side of Foothill Boulevard was lost somewhere in the mountains. Thinking we had come from oposit way the night before, I turned right. The first house stunned me with wonder and confusion: I was in the desert, yet its yard was a true oasis. There was something unusual. In addition to the clusters of slender palm trees, there was a pine tree that reached up to the sky. For the sake of reassuring myself, I said to myself: “Zaek, for sure, your place is right here! “ I continued walking down the boulevard, where gas stations were on every corner, and gas was 79 cents a gallon. I was at the end of Sunland when I saw the park. Children were playing loudly, and not far from them, I saw three men lying on the grass, drinking beer from cans wrapped in paper.            At that moment, my only wish was that my father were with me, and suddenly my soul was flooded with infinite love -I felt like embracing the whole planet. I leaned down and, spontaneously, kissed the parched earth with gratitude and awe.

ENLIGHTENMENT Something is telling me that to find the source of the pain in sleepless nights, we must read more often between the lines of our own thoughts. That's how I personally found a few valuable advice beautifully written there, but with the still-dripping blood from my broken heart. My enlightenment came in the form of a warning that I must stop being blind and deaf, and for my own sake, to make some earnest changes.

Скъпи съграждани, Искам да споделя загрижеността си за мъжката класа в страната, в която избрах да живея и да умра. Днес стигнах до заключението, че след 37-те потвърдени обвинения срещу „Доналд Тръмп“ за престъпления, които той определено е извършил; той не заслужава главните букви на името си. Сега нека се върнем към по-важните факти, които трябва да решим заедно. Гавин Нюсъм има нужда да гласувате за неговите 50, оставям на вас да решите дали да изберете неговите 50 или моя нов закон – 38 е по-важно за всички нас. Призовавам ви, ние, да го съдим за прогонването на трудещите се от Америка. Знаете ли защо иска това? Първата му причина е проста. Той е ядосан, защото инструментът му, с който би трябвало да угажда на нежелаещата Мелания, най-вероятно е в тъжна дневна позиция в 6:30 така или иначе. Но като отмъстителен неудачник, той се опитва да накаже хората, чиито деца един ден ще станат американци. Това е манипулация, създадена от него, за да убие два заека с един куршум. Да, той подскача, когато стресира нашите съпрузи или любовници, за да могат да станат импотентни като него. Но в същото време ще има извинението, че по този начин намалява раждаемостта им. Да, със сигурност ще бъде щастлив, ако може да ни накара всички да страдаме като него. Не, той също иска да се говори за него по-дълго след смъртта му. Подозирам, че самият той е инициаторът на последните пикантни снимки на него и тийнейджърката му дъщеря Иванка в скута му. Но не го видях като педофил в тази снимка, а по-скоро като последно напомняне за неговата потентност. Можем ли да го виним, че обича себе си, като расист и дори когато хората го наричат фашист? Предполагам, че му звучи по-добре, отколкото когато половината нация го нарича импотентени или идиот.

Dear fellow citizens, I want to share my concern for the male class in the country I chose to live and die in. Today, I have concluded that after the 37 confirmed charges against 'donald trump' for crimes He definitely committed, he does not deserve the capital letters of his name. Now, let's get back to the more important facts that we need to decide together. Gavin Newsom needs you to vote for his 50, I leave it to you to decide whether to choose his 50, or my new law 38, is more important for all of us. I call on you, we to put him on trial for forcing the working people out of America. Do you know why he wants that? His first reason is simple. He is angry because his instrument with which suppose to pleasuring the unwilling Melania is most likely in the sad daily position at 6:30 anyway. But as a vindictive loser, he tries to punish the people whose children one day would become Americans. It's a manipulation created by him to kill to rabits with single bullet - hopping when he stress out our husbands or lovers so that they could become impotent like him, but at the same time, he will had the excuse, that he reduceing this way their birthrate.Yes, for sure, he will be happy if he could makes all nation to suffers like him. No, he also wants to be talked about longer after he died. I am sure that he, himself, is the initiator of the latest embarrassing pictures of him and his teen daughter, Ivanka, on his lap as a last reminder of his potency. Can we blame him for loving himself, racist even when people called him a fascist? I guess it sounds better to him than when half of the nation calls him impotent or an idiot.

Today is my boy Philip's birthday, and as you can see, even from the sky, tears flowing, he was only 28 when he left us. Днес е рожденият ден на моето момче Филип и както виждате, дори от небето, сълзи се леят, той беше само на 28, когато ни напусна.

To my son Philip I used to see you standing by the truck that killes you But someone called for it, and I sold it. I wish I had it as a tombstone by my side With the unbearable pain your death caused me son. I light a candle and call your name It was almost in the dead of night, When I felt your presence as a whiff or Just as a fragrance of your breath. “I’m here, Mom.” That’s what I wish to hear Instead of that, you touched my shoulder. Before I knew it, you disappeared, but leave This feeling that you badly need me now. I have unfinished business, son, You have to wait a little longer! Because of you, I’ll make a last effort no matter how costly or dificult that will be! I shall be strong this time for your sister Victoria, her children, Zak and Solei, who still need me.

I AM BLESSED AND FEEL WITH GRATITUDE TODAY, SO I WISH GOOD LUCK AND HEALTH TO EVERYBODY I KNOW AND THEIR FAMILIES

If anyone wants to know how I cop with surprises, I want to say, as usual, I took them seriously if needed or ignored them!

Tomorrow will be a holiday, and I feel for the first time incredibly lonely and very sad and even scared. By the way, I felt this way a few years ago at the DMV when I failed my test seven times. I called a girlfriend of mine, and after I sensed how busy she was, I decided to leave my home immediately and be among people. While driving without a specific destination, I realized that I needed to see and talk to only one person. Still, since he was unavailable, I decided to visit my son instead of looking for him. The graveyard was almost empty at 3:30 PM, so I placed the flowers, spoke briefly with Philip, and then returned home. I felt much better, and I hope never to feel this way again. I will light a candle and will pray for Fanny and Guillermo instead of crying over my lost love. It was precisely what happened when I was alone for so long. 8/31/2025

From Zak to Mom I was going to write you a letter, but you Know what, Mom, I will write you a poem instead. As I sit next to this river, I feel proud to be your son. As I set foot in this foreign land, my fear fades as I am reminded of the courage you have given me. As I fear the act of approaching new people I am reminded of the confidence you taught me. As I see how fragile most families are I feel lucky to have such a strong one You are my hero, the person I want to be like The light that has shown in my darkest hour, But most of all, that you are my mother.

What can I say? Zak is my bright and ambitious grandson He went to Japan by himself and accomplished one of his dreams at the age of nineteen. He spent some quality time in Tokyo and learned more about that country and the life of his childhood friend, whom he visited there. That's how he discovered that the poem allowed people to express their feelings better than with letters.

AM I FORBIDDEN TO LOVE YOU I could see now that back then, you were blessed in a way to be in love, or, more likely, somehow your curiosity was provoked by my directness. With all those thoughts, with trust, I let you into my heart, where our Long-suppressed wishes came out without shame. "Take me to eternity with you! Only there, we could prolong our upcoming irreplaceable moments." was my first strange offer, and I sensed your mistrusted thoughts. "How do you know what will follow? What would happen if I made some unthinkable promise, like we do in front of the icon or altar sometimes?" But I guess it was the same voice, who answered you instead of me:”Don’t worry! You only must remember that even the most exciting beginnings have an end.” I ignored God's warning too, and jumped fearlessly into unknown with you, my love, while jokingly confessing: "Well, I did that already three times without going to any altars!" "What would you expect from me right now? Maybe, lessons in devotion or you are curious about the unlawful life itself I passed?” You surprised me with your fast response, or I did hear what I wanted to happen: "Show me what love mean to you then!" "Let’s set aside if any worries, so I could give you chance to prove to yourself what insatiable lover you could be, but only with me!" After you won me over, we kissed goodbye, and I was overwhelmed by mixed feelings when you disappeared into the frosty morning. But I felt how painlessly you replaced my loneliness with your dedication and love.

Писмо, изпратено от Георги Марков до Любомир Левчев преди 36 години Драги, Любо, Много мислех преди въобще да ти пиша това писмо, защото не храня никакви илюзии, че то може да промени нещо. Зная, че известни неща са отишли толкова далече, че връщането назад е равно на смърт. Зная също, че опитът да направиш равносметка на чужд живот, те поставя в положение на съдия, който се е самоназначил, и че съденето е далеч по-лесен процес от разбирането. Зная, че освен инфлацията на парите, нашето време ни предлага жестока инфлация на думите. Зная каква ще бъде реакцията ти, когато това писмо, записано от монитора, бъде поставено една сутрин на бюрото ти - леко ще потръпнеш, ще ти стане неприятно, ще се изчервиш... и дълго време няма да се решиш да го прочетеш. Зная какъв ще бъде отговорът ти - американското, английското или китайското разузнаване са ми платили да "ударя" по авторитета ти (въпреки че аз няма да ти задам глупавия въпрос: "Кое разузнаване ти е платило, за да бъдеш това, което си?"). И независимо от ясното ми съзнание за безполезността на това писмо, аз мисля, че все пак някой трябваше да го напише, за да ти покаже или окаже вниманието, което заслужаваш. Това писмо не е отправено към един председател на Националния съвет на Отечествения фронт и член на Централния комитет на Българската комунистическа партия. А към един поет, с когото ме свързват дългогодишни спомени. Ако поетът е мъртъв, аз му дължа надгробно слово, ако е жив - дължа му честитка за рождения ден. Вярвам, че в редки моменти на внезапна трезвеност, си спомняш нещо от времето, когато бяхме заедно. Например нашето четене в Ловеч или нашите смешни уроци по италиански, или онези приказни нощи в Боровец край камината и Луис Армстронг, чиято музика ни беше по-близка от цялата партийна идеология, и ако тогава някой се опитваше да ни каже, че той е идеологически диверсант, ти би го ударил. Това беше времето, когато критиците-ветропоказатели не желаеха да споменават името ти, а те поставяха в "и други". Това беше времето, когато ти беше далеч от дяволската стълба на Христо Смирненски. Аз не ще ти припомням други моменти от тези години, когато много неща ни сближаваха и съвсем малко разделяха. Знам, че част от твоята драма е добрата ти памет. Но аз не ще се въздържа да спомена две картини от твоето преображение, на които бях свидетел. Знаменитото гласуване в Съюза на писателите на 12 април 1968 година, когато ти застана на трибуната заекващ, пламнал от срам и неудобство, за да спасяваш кауза, в която дълбоко не вярваше. Трябва да ти е било много тежко да изпълниш поръчението. Съмнявам се дали пребогатото заплащане след това те е компенсирало. И другата картина, когато в края на същата година двамата отидохме на високопоставената вечеря в Боровец, където сякаш посоките ни бяха предопределени. Аз направих много лошо впечатление на нашия високопоставен домакин с невъздържаността си, а ти спечели - с благоразумието си. Тази нощ, в която избраха Никсон срещу Мърфи, аз видях как дяволската стълба се спусна пред тебе и ти без колебание сложи крак на първото стъпало. А дяволът от върха се смееше. После вече не те видях. В мое отсъствие дойде главното ти редакторство на "Литературен фронт", дойдоха стъпало след стъпало, но не стихосбирка след стихосбирка. Критиците се надпреварват да те превъзнасят, вестници и списания са залети от хвалебствия, писани от хора, които не желаеха да те признаят. Хора, които никога нито са те разбирали, нито са имали необходимата интелигентност да отидат отвъд лозунгите в поезията си. Не зная какви са били личните ти мотиви, за да се откажеш от дървото на поета и да се прехвърлиш върху стълбата на кариерата (искам да кажа - асансьора). Може би си смятал, че имаш нужда от простор и че властта ще ти го даде. А може би и ти, като всеки простосмъртен, си решил, че животът се живее веднъж и че е за предпочитане да бъдеш богат кмет, вместо беден поет. Това си е твоя работа. Въпрос на избор. Или на предопределеност. Мъча се да си представя как ли изглеждаш сега. Сигурно си понапълнял, гласът ти е понатежал, но лицето ти си е запазило детските черти. Може би си придобил онзи професионален навик на някои наши ръководители, да гледаш хората, без да ги виждаш, и да ги слушаш, без да ги чуваш. Защото това идва от закона на Стълбата. Не съм сигурен и не зная много неща около тебе. Но има едно-единствено нещо, в което съм сигурен - че ти не си щастлив. Това ясно личи от последните ти стихове и от статиите ти, които по повод и без повод пишеш; това личи от експлозията на гняв и безсилие, на болезнено съзнание и тъпо самодоволство, на бунт и на раболепие. Би ли могъл да си представиш Христо Ботев като верен камериер на Митхад Паша? Преди време ми казаха, че неотдавна си правил опит за самоубийство. Прощавай моята жестока нетактичност да спомена това, но аз искам да бъда напълно обективен и да нарисувам образа ти такъв, какъвто е. Моята позиция и фактът, че мога да казвам точно това, което мисля, без някой да ме цензурира, съветва или коригира, ми дават възможност, която нито един в държавата под твоята стълба няма. Така че ако един ден историята потърси достоверни свидетелски показания, вероятно би се позовала на мен с повече доверие, отколкото на хората около теб. И сега вече стигам до сърцето на твоя конфликт и на нашия конфликт. Въпросът е за вярата. Наистина. И нека ти кажа, че поводът за това писмо не е последната ти поема, а статията ти във вестник "Народна култура" под заглавие "Верую на новия човек". Първото ми впечатление от тази статия е, че ти не си пишеш статиите, а си имаш човек да ги пише, а ти само ги подписваш. И веднага щях да ти дам съвет да го замениш този твой служител с някой, който би имал поне малко уважение към читателите, защото все пак, макар и много рядко, някой прочита тия вестници и тия статии. Бих искал за момент да ти заема моите очи и да те накарам да прочетеш това произведение, бих искал за момент да ти върна твоите очи отпреди десет години, за да почувстваш знака за равенство между поета Любомир Левчев и журналистическия еквивалент на Рачко Пръдлето. Един поет може да вярва в едно или друго, може да приема една вяра и да я отхвърля, да бъде герой или предател, да отстоява или да изменя, да бъде защитник или нападател, да обича или да мрази - все едно какво и колко пъти. Един поет има право да бъде всичко с изключение на едно - няма право да не бъде поет! И въпросът е преди всичко за вярата. И позволи ми да те запитам направо: Наистина ли вярваш в това, което си написал. Защото за съжаление статията си я писал ти. Защото в равната локва от безсмислени думи, която уморен партиен агитатор е излял, използвайки всички умопомрачителни клишета на провинциалните вестници, аз видях капки от собственото ти мастило, думите на луд защитник на отдавна превзета крепост, който, свършил патроните, крещи срещу чуждите войници. Но те не му обръщат внимание. Никой не го взема на сериозно. И това съвсем го влудява. Или да вземем думите ти, че "Солженицин е белогвардейска отрепка". Аз не ще разисквам с теб дали оценката ти за Солженицин е вярна, защото ти знаеш много добре, че той не е нито белогвардеец, нито отрепка. Но онова, което ме порази, беше тази експлозия на омразата ти спрямо човек, който е това, което ти не си и не можеш да бъдеш. Ти не можеш да понесеш съществуването на един честен човек, защото той става еталон на собственото ти безчестие и напълно искрено, дълбоко, ти го мразиш. Той е твоето отрицание. Той не те познава, нито ще те познава, но неговото присъствие на този свят смачква болезненото ти самолюбие и превръща "Чайката", в която се возиш, в твоя катафалка. И ти крещиш думи, които дори последното чираче на Кочетов или остатък от някогашен махленски стражар, не би си позволил. Аз зная, че ти би дал всичко скъпо за теб, за да бъдеш на негово място, за да бъдеш непокорната, гордата съвест на цял един свят. Ах, как би желал да бъдеш на негово място! Затова твоята омраза към него е лична и съвсем глупаво се опитваш да се прикриеш зад брадата на Карл Маркс, като се изкарваш за най-предан защитник на социализма и по този начин караш твоето общество да ти хонорува личната омраза. Между впрочем това е много характерно за хората около теб. Те искат предаността да им се плаща, искат "идеализмът" да им се плаща, искат "героизмът" да им се плаща, искат да им се плаща загдето "вярват", забравяйки простото правило, че един вярващ не е повече вярващ, след като му се плати за вярването. Но тъй като ти не вярваш в нищо, твоето заплащане се предявява по параграф "омраза". Наистина ти си все същият "неверник". Моля те, прочети това, което си писал. Или искаш аз да ти го прочета. Ти говориш, че буржоазията нямала никакъв морал. Бих те посъветвал да попиташ майка си, ако поне вярваш в нея. Далеч съм от мисълта да защитавам буржоазията, но нима ти смяташ, че не си буржоа? Нима думите на Маркс, които цитираш, че буржоазният морал бил покупко-продажба, не важат главно за тебе и за твоето общество, което е прекопирало всички дяволски черти на буржоазни свят, без да запази нравствените задръжки на морала му. Ти знаеш много добре за какво говоря. Ние нямаме друг случай в историята на целия буржоазен свят като този, който ти си забравил да категоризираш в твоето "Верую". Хора, които по заповед се кланят на едного и го смятат за вожд, след което по заповед го оплюват, предават и убиват, след което по заповед го реабилитират и му издигат паметник, след което по заповед го забраняват и след което по заповед изпращат големи венци на гроба му. Знаеш ли къде е улица "Трайчо Костов". Тя е в квартал "Лозенец" и е една много стръмна улица. И затова на мен ми звучат така странно и весело твоите думи, че "буржоазната идеологическа диверсия се стреми да руши нашите морални ценности". Какво каза? Чии морални ценности? Казват, че къртиците край Панагюрище измрели от смях. Но аз пак се връщам на въпроса за вярата. Беше време, когато ти наистина вярваше, беше време, когато ти наистина би се потресъл от статия, която девет години по-късно ще напише твоят двойник, когато твоята вяра не се разхождаше по страниците на нечистоплътни вестници като "Народна култура", а стоеше в кръга на твоята интимност; беше време, когато ти произнасяше думите социализъм и комунизъм със свещенодействието, с което Солженицин днес се прекръства. Беше време, когато вярваше, че всяко голямо обществено преобразование започва с личния пример, че не партията прави комунистите, а комунистите правят партията и че обществото не е уплашено инстинктивно стадо, а хармонична структура от високо съзнаващи личности. Къде отиде всичко това? Къде отиде твоята вяра? И въобще вярваш ли в нещо, тъй като веруюто ти е доказателство за отчаяно бездънно недоверие. Или може би аз преувеличавам, може би просто съм те сбъркал. Може би ти просто като всички други систематично и трудолюбиво си разигравал играта на думи и званието на "поет" да е било само най-ниското стъпало на блестящата ти кариера... Не, това не вярвам. Знаеш, че винаги съм бил фанатичен оптимист. Не защото съм вярвал, а защото съм искал да вярвам. И сега искам да повярвам, че един ден, една най-обикновена сутрин, ти ще се пробудиш, поетът ще се пробуди, ще издържи сътресението на първия действителен контакт със себе си и шокът, който ще последва, ще го накара да скочи от стълбата, за да се върне там, където му е мястото, където никой не ти плаща за вярването, а за невярването си плащаш ти! Твой: Георги Марков