Will “chorbadzhi” (rich man) hear there in the foreign land? Far, maybe even across the sea… You are a foreigner to everyone… There is no one to speak with, to share the tears! Not one year, not two. Years and years of brutal life to pass, to earn money, to come back home until you can show your face. If I get sick, will “chorbadzhi” Jordan ask for me? Will there be someone to wipe off my sweat, to change my shirt and to cover me with a blanket?… Ah, black and bloody is our “pechalba” (seasonal work), mother? Even more bloody is the beggary, which is hunting us down! Look what that poor “pechalba” did to us!… Man – slave! Son – slave! Daughter – slave! And the mothers, born for tears only!… “ This verse from “Pechalbari” by Anton Panov, my grandfather was repeating every day of my childhood, drinking rakia from this flask, remembering his days of seasonal work. Now, when I went to seasonal work in Germany, I took the flask that reminds me of my grandfather, of home, of the work and of the longing for home.