Farewell, the road of Vytachiv,
Running through mist, sunshine and rain.
The grove is clad in yellow leaves,
The wind has withered away with ice.
I'm leaving for the city turmoil.
The Sun is covered by smog there.
Yet, there is a sofa and a rug on the floor.
And there are no tick-bugs.
Farewell, the road of Vytachiv!
Woven out of hare tracks.
Here I learned intricacies of life,
Thought about eternity and caught mice.
Tomorrow I shall lie on the sofa
And snore in unison with the classical music...
And the hare cuts the web of mist with its ears,
And three does wallow in the sun. Like a dream...
Translation by Ivan Shevchenko
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