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Dragi prijatelji,resila sam da vam pisem istinitu pricu o svom zivotu.Pisacu vam u nekoliko delova....Jedan zivot ne moze stati u jednu pricu.
Moji roditelji su rodom iz Bosne. Kada su se vencali dosli su trbuhom za kruhom u Beograd.Otac se zaposlio kao vozac u Gradskom saobracajnom preduzecu. Mama je bila domacica. Iznajmili su sobu sa zajednickim kupatilom u jednom prigradskom naselju. Ubrzo na na svet sam dosla ja, a kroz dve godine i moja sestra. Mucili su se moji roditelji. Jedna plata, podstanari, dvoje dece....cesto nismo imali ni za normalan rucak. Pricala mi je mama jer se ja toga ne secam...Jedno jutro budimo se,srecne, razdagane...nesto lepo mirise...mama nam sprema dorucak. Pitale smo je sta nam to lepo sprema.....krila je suze da ne vidimo kako place, jer nam je spremila malu pogacu od pola kilograma brasna i dva krompira na pari sa belim lukom.....to je sve sto je imala u kuci....Ona je bila tuzna,sto nije imala vise,a mi srecne....nismo raumele njenu tugu. Bile smo zadovoljne i sa ono malo sto je imala da nam pruzi.
Kako su tople ruke moje majke
Nalik na belinu sa lakih oblaka,
Sad znam da su istinite bajke
O dobroti, koje je često pričala baka.
Hvala sto me pratite.
Dear friends, I have decided to write you a true story about my life. I will write to you in several parts .... One life cannot fit into one story. My parents are from Bosnia. When they got married, they came to Belgrade with a belly full of bread. My father got a job as a driver in the City Transportation Company. Mom was a housewife. They rented a room with a shared bathroom in a suburb. Soon I was born, and two years later my sister. My parents struggled. One salary, tenants, two children ... we often didn't even have a normal lunch. My mom told me because I don't remember that ... One morning we wake up, happy, happy ... something nice smells ... my mom is making us breakfast. We asked her what she was preparing for us ..... she hid her tears so we wouldn't see her cry, because she prepared a small cake of half a kilo of flour and two steamed potatoes with garlic ..... that's all she had in the house .... She was sad, she didn't have more, and we were happy .... we didn't understand her grief. We were also pleased with what little she had to give us.
How warm my mother's hands are Like whiteness from light clouds, Now I know that the true fairy tales are about goodness, which my grandmother often told.