Long nights he cries inactive Volyn ..

Long nights, Volyn cries...

Tears like stars falling...

Behind those beautiful girls,

With long hair reaching up his hips,

With a bright chamomile face

Lighted by happy smiles...

To whom the crowning maidenship of marriage,

I've never looked forward to it.

Death with large inexpressible hatred lured,

All in silence, she was waiting...

Under the blade attached to the neck,

Afraid not to shout,

They offered God their last sigh,

Begging for a slight death...

And from under the flag knives of blunt blades,

The innocent blood flowed from thin guards,

To plunge between the green grasses of the clumps,

Shrinked by the tragic nights with the moonlight...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

The lightning that pierces the sky...

Behind those cloud-eyed young men,

Always full of enthusiasm and energy,

Dreaming of their families once,

To the chosen hearts of heaven...

When on the road to the rite of hand,

The neighborhood's hatred stopped,

In the shadow of anti-Polish lies,

Dirty propaganda fed for years...

Dreams of an engagement ring,

Starning in the sun upon the heart's chosen finger,

He has foiled a line cast around his neck,

Clogged by hateful neighbors...

When they were attacked after dark without mercy,

The neighbors were murdered at night,

As they went distant to eternity, they kept under their eyelids,

The image of your fair-haired loved ones...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

The moonlight in the Dawn reflected...

Behind those young mothers,

Lovers of life, small children,

Which, in those terrible moments,

The least they could do...

When those terrible Volyn nights,

All savagely murdered,

They couldn't have reached the faint force of the remnants,

To save his children...

When the loud scream of frightened mothers,

He kept the words in his throat,

And the stab wounds that are blind,

They pierced their breasts at night.

Only seeing from afar,

The defenseless of their children shattered heads,

They're all gone.

They couldn't think of the words of prayer...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

Night dew with countless drops...

Behind those tender fathers,

The heads of happy, multi-children families,

The day of all same - sacrificing effort,

To improve your future...

When I've been working on a farm all day,

My beloved land devoted,

Though the tired never complained,

By rubbing the forehead off the thick sweat of the drops...

But she was fed years of neighbouring envy,

It proved to be a death conviction for them,

In the face of the hatred of the black helpless,

They couldn't save their families...

Often against each other,

All the hateful villages,

By the neighbors at night, murdered secretly,

Among the torments of the unspeakable, they said goodbye to life...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

In his grief, inactive unconcealed...

Behind those joyous children,

Which, in the childhood of a minute of carelessness,

They were victims of cruel crimes,

The suffering suffered unaccounted for...

Among the streams of tears caught,

To torture inhumane become a target,

Violently beaten and beaten,

The suffering suffered unknown in the world...

"Sometimes the skin is torn off,

In the midst of the crying of disgraced mothers,

For fences without mercy,

When their fathers' blood sank into the ground...

Sometimes with hands tied with wire,

No mercy thrown on the floor,

"In a burning fire burned alive,

With the full household house...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

Tears heavier than field stones...

Behind those gray-haired old men,

Full of peculiar life wisdom,

Always with his beloved grandchildren,

Ready to share your life experience...

At the end of life, painfully despised,

Among the dehumanizing ridicule and ridicule,

By those they had as neighbors,

Who they never bothered...

Sometimes by pulling out their cane,

A ruthless, cruel flagman,

With 1 blow, he broke his jaw,

And from the wrinkled face, the blood was pouring...

And sometimes in the midst of a vile reproach,

With a tiny weapon a loud shot came

And an old man's body fell down,

Hitting your head at the front door of the con...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

The night light of the blushing...

Behind those devoted priests,

By the power of sermons, services and prayers,

The faithful salvation of human souls,

Knowing the priestly service of shadows and radiance...

In the interiors of old wooden churches,

In which they served God their full lives,

On those nights burned alive,

Without the slightest mercy...

When with hands bound with rough ropes,

To the old altars tied,

By the cruel banderas severely beaten,

The bloody ones couldn't move...

And they only waited in silence,

Until the fire of the flag torches,

Burning everything with heat,

Their cruel torment will end...

Long nights, Volyn cries...

Dreaming at the full moon with shadows...

Behind countless Polish gravestones

Destroyed by vengeful flags,

With the impacts of large iron hammers,

In the moonlight with the crackling shattered...

So that they don't commemorate their existence

Poles on Volyn living,

The terrible destiny must have divided,

The demolished churches, manor houses and peasant homesteads...

By the slightest Polish trace,

In Volyn, he no longer remained,

To be clean as a glass of water,

She was of the sick dreams of a banded Ukraine...

But to remember the lands of these Polish people,

No 1 in the planet can wipe it off.

Reminiscing arrogant Poles troubled Volyn,

She cries at night.

- I'm sorry. A poem written to celebrate the eighty-second anniversary of bloody Sunday in Volyn...