I am sure that each of us, to one degree or another, with a slight, invisible inner warmth, refers to the place where he was born. And it seems that there, the light is brighter, the sun is warmer, the water is clearer and the sky reflected in it is clear, cloudless. Yes, this is our “small Motherland”. About her, about my village, about its everyday life, experiences, history, people, nature, dense forests in which the forest owner rules, free fields - with the harvest from which not so long ago the bins of my native land were filled, deep rivers and small streams that arise from quiet, clean springs, where every drop of the source gives strength to continue life, about a childish, carefree summer with grandparents, about a frosty winter, about a damp and chilly autumn, about the awakening spring, about faith and, of course, about the old white fairy tales that the gray wind sings, this is what my poems are about. Welcome to “a whole village world, with paths worn out to holes.”