Bucharest is a beautiful city with streets, cars, trees, houses and blocks where the working people, the lovers of the river and the mioritic ram, who smash cuddly puppies, antisocial flies and many lizards, are living. In spring, our capital blooms like a lily of the valley on Lake Tonola, but now it is winter, the lily is frozen. The sweet water that anyone who drinks is no longer lurking in his socialist concrete slide, mirroring the proud constructions of the democratic struggle that they are looking at from the blues-burghers and the proletarians. Snow covered like a crystal blanket over the sidewalks delights the passers-by with its light brown-gray tones. The neon light sways through the labyrinth of cables, a strong proof of Bucharest's informational progress. Everything is only good, joy and joy.
A cry of admiration from the passers-by.
Regardless of Bucharest, the schools attract teachers and wonderful people
every
