The fog reached the village, They splashed across the fields and ravines. I feel the quiet words whispering from my mother (Mom to pray) - that’s it, just like that. The sinewy hands folded like a chaplain. Mitya is wonderful. Only mother and God. Prayer has a symphony of sounds, And it sounds just for two. The cry of a violin is unquenchable, Quit about the lost share. For my daughter, onukiv, and son Mom pray. Mommy hurts. Oksamitov's flute sounds A quiet voice will fly away. Mom might get up to pray... The sky can feel you, speak up. The kettledrums are causing anxiety in the sky. The mother's heart senses trouble. And then in prayers until I fell ill At the gap there is a need. Here are some chords in major I minor sounding zhurbi, Life-giving streams flow here Until the gurgling willow tree. Prayers not to be afraid of censorship, For the sake of the heart, do not sound from the pulpit. God knows the score I applies his seal. Mom's prayer symphony... We will never get rid of it. We are happy, as I command from us To live as prayer books.
