Into Siberian taiga's wild thickets--
Where cranes don't fly,
Where bears cleared paths,
Where laboring beavers lodges built--
They convoyed people:
To monotones of clicking wheels,
And rivers of the mothers' tears,
Those endless, endless convoy trains
Left bloody traces:
Corpses, thrown out--
Infants, turned cold,
Famished old men,
The sick they'd starved.
They who their land, their own Ukraine,
Shielded till death, though spent of hope,
Sprinkled their book as rain upon it,
Covered it thickly with their bones.
And there in Moscow, far away,
In predatory, gloomy Kremlin,
The tyrants held their bloody banquet
And, their teeth bared, they celebrated:
"There'll be no Ukraine on this Earth!"
Twentieth-century Mongols, remember this:
Ukraine will never die!
My people stand like Titan wrapped in mist,
Like a volcano that cannot be extinguished.
And we, we're streams of fiery lava,
Who rotted souls awaken,
Who sow unsullied seeds
They will all sprout come spring,
And from the dead Ukraine will rise!