My dear country!

I'm writing to you now, before midnight, because it's quieter. Soon it will be December 1st, your birthday. I'm not allowed to upset you, because you're being celebrated. They'll parade you and bring out your tanks. They'll hover helicopters and wave your colours. They'll call your name and tell you how beautiful you are. They'll parade your soldiers and dogs that save lives. Then your sons and daughters will be flocking to beans and chickpeas and mulled wine, singing... and they'll be dancing, and by morning they'll forget it's your birthday.

My Romania, but are you happy today? Or are you alone? Does anyone ask you how you feel?

My Romania, you have aged another year. And you've got another wrinkle on your forehead. And if I had any power, I'd beg your sons and daughters to return from across seas and countries, to hitch themselves to the same wagon, to pull all in the same direction, to love you with blood and soul, to kiss your land, to lay down their lives for you. And to pull you out of the gloom before it's too late; for even you are not immortal!

I'm Maria. An orphan born in a ditch in Romania and run over by a truck in Buytura (Suceava). I had three broken legs, but I learned to walk again. And for your birthday, I sincerely say that you have too many dogs and too few arms fighting for them. And that sometimes your beautiful face is animal hell on earth. And winter's not even here yet, it seems to wait a little longer... just for our pity.

Happy birthday, my Romania!