But no one can win my heart

a Russian girl who had proposed to President Putin, said that she is still unmarried. She said that the reason for not getting married was because she did not find a partner who suits her. “It is a pity that the president did not call me. After proposing to the president, many admirers asked me to marry me, but no one could win me Heart.”

Yulia still couldn’t hide her admiration for Putin. She said that President Putin is a strong-willed, determined and healthy person, and she has always admired him. On March 6, 2020, President Putin went to Ivanovo for an inspection. When he was talking with the crowd, a girl suddenly shouted: “Please marry me as your wife!” Putin briefly talked with her for a while, and then he laughed to the people: “Ivanovo has always been called the city of fiancee.” , I didn’t expect that I was also proposed. This girl will be famous all over the country.” Yulia also forwarded her photo, phone number and a note through Putin’s assistant. The note read: I am 28 years old and have a job. Higher education, no children and no financial burden.

On the flat and immense plain, winter has spread its ice, its frost and its snow. From the Plata to the Andes, from the bushes of the Chaco to the cliffs of Tierra del Fuego, the plain, the enormous and unprecedented plain, has wrapped itself in that winter blanket, and sleeps. She is tired of producing. The spring harvest of flowers, the summer harvest, they have yielded it. Now he wants to rest …

But there is no rest for you, O fertile plain. Fate has condemned you to an eternal, growing and accelerated germination. The world is hungry, and the world thinks{116}that you have the mission to feed him. You are condemned to germinate eternally, more and more intensely. You can not sleep. You do not sleep, not even now, when ice, frost and snow cover you with their cloak. The seed is awake, the seed stirs you inside, and lives inside you, lacerating your maternal entrails.

Your Sabbaths are over. Since the light was made on Earth, a plow needle has never crossed your flat surface. Man has never tormented you with the blows of the hoe, and the naive, vagabond, wandering Indian, wandered at random through the reeds of the marshlands, through the bushes of the valleys, brushing against you only with the footprint of his plant. naked. The light guanacos, the aerial ostriches, the undulating and light tiger, were your only owners. In that happy and dawning time, nobody demanded that your entrails give birth more, always more, in a feverish succession of harvests. If you created, your creation was platonic and free; you gave your flowers and herbs to the wind, as a simple poet randomly gives his disinterested verses.{117}

But one day some bearded men came. His gaze carried a satanic reflection, and his gesture clearly signified the most demonic of vices: greed. Behind them, on that distant continent where every tragedy had its stage, other men awaited, millions of avid people. The explorers returned, praising the virgin bounty of the new land of promise. And since then there is no peace for you. The nervous horse, the philosophical ox, the innocent sheep, multiplied to infinity, demanding from your pastures more production, always more. And with the plow, later, they scratched the unscathed of your surface, oh, immense plain, to bury us, the seeds!

We are the seed, the golden wheat, the beneficial flour. We are strange to you, American plain. We come from an old and worked continent, where nothing is produced spontaneously anymore. We are, within agriculture, a product of industry. We are the daughters of human thought. We are human, human.{118}

We represent the axis of man’s idea: bread. For man to live, for his hopes to be realized in the field of science and the ideal, it is necessary that we exist, the seeds, and that we give eternally the nourishment of bread. There is something of human fever in us; human tragedy has taken us as collaborators. All human history is influenced by our name, and God, when he cursed man, spoke of bread as the supreme torment. Oh! We are torment, restlessness and anguish. The miserable man evokes us in his moments of desolation, and that social tragedy that now reaches its peak has as its sinister background the precise word: bread.

Germinate, companions, under the sleeping earth. Let’s never rest. Human tragedy needs us; the ideal of man needs us too. For the tragedy, for the longing, for the joys and for the ideal, germinate, companions, until the consummation of the centuries.

Winter has spread its icy mantle;{119}It does not matter. We, the seeds, are watching awake in the bosom of the plain. We are hardly noticed. The unlearned gaze thinks that everything is over, and that the most absolute stillness reigns under winter. Perhaps only a green moss appears, a subtle and timid grass, between the lines that the plow made; but the furrows will revive, and an opulent glory will rise with the first spring breezes. And when the solar hour arrives, when the gusts of the wind are as soft as a caress of love, then we will give the earth an unsurpassed greenery. And the whole plain will shine with glory. It will resemble a sea without shores, a lavish ocean; from the bushes of the Chaco to the cliffs of Tierra del Fuego, the plain will be covered with opulence. And the wind that rises from the hollows of the Andes will die in the Estero del Plata after playing with that sea of ​​vegetables. And then the ears of corn will come, and our work will be finished. And then the plain will look like a sea of ​​gold, a fantasy from fairy tales, a{120} promise made fruit and a dream turned to gold.

Germinate, companions. We are the supreme symbol; We represent the idea that gets into the womb, and that works in silence, to finally emerge in flowers and fruits of reality. From an idea of ​​infinity the worlds sprang; Astral seeds are the stars, which have to germinate in the silence of the Cosmos, until they give their phenomenal harvest. What was it but a seed, this amazing land that sustains us? He carried within him the germs of all greatness and also of all crime; the seed was manifested, life was born, and now the earth is a great and magnificent fruit — perhaps a little bitter, but always magnificent!

The world is hungry. Do not rest, companions! In Europe, numerous men await us, those who bustle in the cities, those who uproot the beloved objects of civilization in the factories. The miserable awaits us, as well as the potentate. No table repudiates us. The crook violently tears the coveted bread,{121}and goes to devour him in his den; just as the delicate maiden breaks the beautiful crusty bread and caresses it with her ivory teeth. No one escapes our temptation. With bread the pride of man is nourished.

We represent the germ, that thing full of mystery, temptation, curiosity and infinite possibilities. The germ is the most mysterious and the most ineffable. In the germ is hidden the solution of all the acts that will later serve as admiration. In a human germ a Napoleon, a Socrates or a soulless person can preexist. Of countless germs life is made, and all life is a flowered germ. We too, the germs of bread, will blossom into blond ears, like a philosophy that resolves itself into sublime realities. The reality of hot and restorative bread: that has to be our future reality.

Let us work, companions, under the frozen earth of the plain. Then the warm spring sun will come, and the ears will undulate gracefully. And the warm summer sun will come, and the harvests will take on the sacred color{122}of gold. And the men will walk happily through the fields. Mountains of wheat will rise. The trains will run wildly, busily driving the rich grain. And the trains will flow into the port, where the huge ships will be waiting for the precious cargo. To take it to the four corners of the world.

And from the successive harvests, the world will return the gift of wheat with mountains of minted gold. And so the dream of an increasingly rich and populous nation will be realized. New cities will be born, the plain will be covered with busy people. Finally a harvest of ideas will come, which perhaps today live in germ …

Work hard, companions.