My native Ukraine is a nightingale language,
Golden ears of grain, poppies in the rye.
The edge of the gate is made up of viburnum, willow, and sycamore,
Temples and rooms in towel colors.
My native Ukraine is a drop of my soul,
Cranesong in the morning.
My native Ukraine is one land,
That Taras walked barefoot.
Native Ukraine is a swan-like pair,
The lake is bottomless and the river is swift,
In the garden, the hut is a white shirt,
A path in the green knotweed.
My native Ukraine is my family at the table,
Fog is spreading across the ravine valley.
My father's conversation is quiet, in the evening,
A mother's prayer is an eternal talisman.
