Сiла птаха бiлокрила на тополю,
Сiло сонце понад вечiр за поля.
Покохала, покохала я до болю
Молодого, молодого скрипаля.
Покохала, зачарована струною,
Заблукала та мелодiя в гаю.
В гай зелений журавлиною весною
Я понесла своє серце скрипалю.
Шла до нього, наче мiсячна царiвна,
Шла до нього, як до березня весна.
I не знала, що ця музика чарiвна
Не для мене, а для iньшої луна.
Сiла птаха бiлокрила на тополю,
Сiло сонце понад вечiр за поля.
Покохала, покохала я до болю
Молодого, молодого скрипаля.
The power of the white-winged bird on the poplar,
The sun was setting over the fields in the evening.
I fell in love, I fell in love to the point of pain
A young, young violinist.
Loved, enchanted by the string,
That melody got lost in the grove.
In a grove of green cranberries in spring
I carried my heart to the violinist.
She went to him like a lunar princess,
Went to him, as in March, spring.
And I didn't know that this music was magical
Not for me, but for another echo.
The power of the white-winged bird on the poplar,
The sun was setting over the fields in the evening.
I fell in love, I fell in love to the point of pain
A young, young violinist.
