The whisper of heroes from the past...
Carrying over the past books,
He touched our sensitivity as a child,
Teaching love to native history...
When in the buildings of the old schools with the plaster falling,
Young teachers of their work dedicated,
So many of us have changed lives,
About the native past by inactive teaching beautifully...
When, in the midst of a joyful childhood of carefree moments,
The hearty words of an ambitious teacher,
So much encouragement,
We sank into the planet of the ancient past...
And beautifully published historical novels,
Another 1 eagerly turning the cards
We've been following their characters closely,
To paint them with a brush of child's imagination...
By long moon nights,
In the bottomless sleep of the abyss,
In reading emotions inactive sunk,
Loved heroes of adventure dream...
The whisper of heroes from the past...
When the weary sleep closes the eyelids,
In the robes of colored words,
To the world's most distant corners,
With the swing of his invisible hand,
He touches the long nights of awakened subconscious,
Sleeping in stone millions of people,
In order to sleep the engulfed emotions...
And through his dreams,
Talk about the destiny of the partisans,
Who, in the hr of life's trial,
Like their ancestors, they never failed...
With a ruthless conflict for Homeland independence,
Men erstwhile intertwined their fate,
From the smoldering free beginnings of conspiracy,
By forming more compact troops...
And under the cover of vast forests and gardens,
When the forefathers sounded the golden horn
And there came a time of vengeance,
They took revenge on a hated enemy...
The whisper of heroes from the past...
Though the human ear is seemingly inaudible,
At the same time so moving and mysterious,
It touches the strings of our sensitivity...
Every tarty cloudless night,
Recalling those cruel times,
When the darkness of ruthless soul dictators,
As the globe burst, it almost blew...
When the planet flooded with a flood of hate,
Another blitzkrieg with devastating waves,
For the blood of superiority and progressive eugenics,
By awakening people's most primitive instincts...
In the raised human hand of hell,
From the planet with barbed wire,
They did not hesitate to sacrifice their lives,
To save another people at the time of their attempt...
Seeing his fellow men fall all day,
Comrades of that cruel misery,
They taught them tirelessly Christian love,
No substance what the planet has suffered...
The whisper of heroes from the past...
Carrying over the destroyed images of the saints,
Between Old Paper Prayers
And a 100 years old for the service of the book,
a wrinkled hand with worship of the inserted,
In the sad sometimes life of autumn,
To direct prayer to them,
Looking out for small comfort,
Some sick old lady,
In my last life,
Before it ended its long course,
The 1 he wanted sent comfort...
When in a wooden church with half darkness,
Among the empty scratched benches,
In his youthful years, a distant memory,
She's brushed with a bitter tear...
Reminiscing as if from an unbreakable partisan unit,
In a couple of paramedics,
She sacrificed the most beautiful years of the Motherland,
In which a night of eternal sleep will rest...
