In a whirlwind of dreams and determination, from the valleys, one embarks, yearning for a life more golden. Venturing to the westward terrains, the heart finds an anchor. But ah, before this sojourn, the Balkan's bitterness is released, an act to lighten the heart's burden. In the west, a dwelling of mere 40-50 square meters awaits. The pursuit of labor takes you 50 kilometers away. At dawn's first light, 05:00, you rise and only return when the clock strikes 17:00. The coins you earn shine bright, but alas, they cannot be spent frivolously; for the dream is to gather and save. No more tavern tales, no more gatherings, roasted delights, nor returning home under the moonlight past 23:00. The night's embrace is sought by 21:00.
Time's wings flap unnoticed, yet the bank's numbers sing tales of progress. From afar, the sight of construction in the forsaken Balkan catches the eye, and the heart yearns to join the melody. Labor in the west, build in the Balkan. Yet, as bricks stack, coins diminish, leading to toil even on weekends. Pay is fair, undoubtedly. An annual hiatus of 25 days beckons, leading back to homeland, to add finishing touches and plan more. The hiatus ends, back to the 50 square meter life, but resilience keeps company.
Wings of time never tire. The Balkan abode grows in grandeur, while one's presence dwindles. One year, the journey is halted by draining funds. The offspring, unfamiliar with the Balkan trails, see no purpose, especially in the absence of elderly guides. Yet, labor never ceases for dreams of a golden retirement, which arrives swifter than anticipated. Return to the Balkan palace is met with an irregular heart's beat. Few uncertain years remain, burdened with maintaining the grand 400 square meter mansion. Consolation whispers, “If not me, at least my children shall relish”. The children, now tethered to distant lands, are left with no choice but to sell this legacy as they bid farewell to their roots.
And thus, the quest for a radiant life in chilly western towns, be it Frankfurt, Copenhagen, Brussels, Berlin, Luzern, or Offenbach, concludes. A mansion remains, a relic of dreams, hosting a new dweller, one who never ventured beyond the Balkan.
Author Unknown
Are we indeed cursed souls? Are we fading silently into the night? Is this but a dramatic lament? Or a grim fate that awaits?
