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Oh my dear thoughts, oh my dear thoughts,1 Troubling are you to me! Why have you appeared on a paper In oh so sad rows? Why dosen't the wind scatter you all In the steppe like the dust? Why did trouble not lull you, Like it's own dear child? Oh my dear thoughts, O my dear thoughts, Flowers my dear children! I nurtured you, looked after you,- What shall I do with you? Into Ukraine go my children! Destitute, all orphaned, And I - here will perish. There you will find a generous heart And a comforting word, There you will find sincere truth, And maybe, yet, some glory... Do greet them, my dear mother, Oh My dear Ukraine, My little children, they're not wise, As you would your children.

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