In the dark of the old church,
Among the laughter of ridicule,
The words of hateful ones,
From the inexpressible contempt of the heavy,
The drops of holy water were falling,
For saws, forks, axes,
By sanctifying them for a criminal purpose,
In the sacrilege of the godless.
The flame of the old pop sermon,
Inhuman hate, forged,
The large crimes were expected to be a thrill,
The horrors poured across Ukraine by fire,
The hateful words of old pop,
They were like soul-saturated venom,
Under the banner of spreading
Killing any remorse.
And these holy water drops,
For Polish children were a sentence,
For they were to proclaim their death,
Their terrible destiny was a seal.
And all holy water drop,
Someone's suffering meant immeasurable,
Death in untold torment,
Orgies of execution in the depths of madness.
And these small drops,
The heralds were terrible crimes,
They were expected to announce a baby's blood stream,
Uncounted by their tears,
And all holy water drop,
Dirty, disgusting and cold,
The blessing was Satan,
The devil's giggle was all over her.
She hated Agiasma,
In those cruel days,
It was not a symbol of cleansing,
She was plagued by impoverished words...
And in the moon, a ghastly glow,
They broke down the crowhouse door,
They were tearing apart the skulls of tiny children,
Blessed by the pop ax,
sprinkled in the church of a scythe,
Reflecting in the depths of frightened pupils,
Touching young larynx girls,
Many lives have been permanently cut.
And drops of blood shed by Polish children,
Before the faces of the angels,
Crying in tears,
About the horrors of terrible crimes,
And all drop of baby blood,
She told the angels,
Like the large immeasurable cruelty,
On Volyn nights she witnessed.
And those drops of innocent blood,
Children of the savagely murdered,
The faithful angels honored God,
Sealing them with their kisses,
To the end of the planet as a witness,
About that horrible savagery,
Like a human animal nature,
It can be uncontrollable...
It was expected to be free Ukraine,
Clean as a proverbial glass water,
But in unspeakable hatred,
She shortly bled with blood.
And despite the years,
It remains inactive ugly and dirty,
In those unaccounted for crimes
Still shameless,
Still without the will to purify,
When a lying elite,
The disgraceful policy course sets out,
Worshiping criminals in countless monuments...
And the children murdered in Volyn,
No one's gonna fatten up,
Only heavenly angels,
They will teardrop their tears out of their eyes,
And all Polish kid tears,
The greater has weight in the eyes of God,
Than Ukrainian historians of lies,
To whom the two-faced planet applauds.
Each drop of Polish blood
She remained on Volyn land,
The witness is unbroken today
Those terrible crimes,
A large sea of tears,
Polish children killed cruelly,
To humanity is simply a stain on honor,
For a civilized planet of conscience...
- I'm sorry. A poem written to commemorate the eighty-third anniversary of bloody Sunday in Volyn...
