Getting back home after a long exile, I climbed down the plain rolling out like a parchment paper and, with my first step on the motherland soil, I drunk up greedy from the crude oil pump, wrap up the flag around my shoulders, got on my knees, kissed the gray old clods of clay and said: "Oh country, bones of our father's horses, rebuilt in stone from scratch, if there's no beauty in this world, we're nothing but some empty shapes walking in circles around the arch."