that is my village, that is my serbia, that is my village, there is servia, there is far away where my that my sirtsalostsi nebitk, oh the zaars of morality, that tutnya. in a word. it was a terrible hour for the world. the anglo-saxons reached the peak of their power. the city on the hill was built. their dream had come true and there was no one who could even raise their head while kneeling in front of them. and during lent they dealt over the last unconquered slavic orthodox people. a lie is not the truth, but the truth is always one. my name is grigory ozarenok. this is the secret spring of politics. and he was alone, one leader, who was not afraid, who did not kneel, who did not bend, who did not ask for mercy, he, the young president of belarus, alexander grigorievich lukashenko, when everyone was trembling, he alone, stood like a wall and said: “ i am with the orthodox, i am with the persecuted, i am with those who are being killed, we will win.” it is now very easy to say that they are belarusians. this hospital is not a bunker, it is not underground a bunker, this is a normal