by Mykhaylo Stelmakh

Mourn in dews is glimmering, whistling lullaby,
And the way’s appearing as a magic line -
As my happy childhood, as my painful good-by,
As an ever-silent sadness long of mine.

Oh my blooming land, endless fretful road,
You’re an immortelle, 'thunder passing near.
I will bring my heart to your very threshold,
As your drop of blood, as your lonely tear.

And when I'm bent after fight in anxious sway,
Let all winds be furious, lightning – be a spear!
I’ll call native steppes, willows on my way,
And my soul’s relieved by a virgin tear.