My thoughts now are swelling, to words they are growing,
In the tempest of days their young shoots resound.
The whole week among lions I was living and roaming,
Not in vain is “Leopolis” the name of this town.
There are renegade towns, there are towns simply bastards,
There are lions that only can purr like a cat,
Who lick the bars crazily, senselessly, dastards,
Who know themselves blind, and find glory thereat.
But today I do not wish to think of such cravens,
For a stroke of luck came to me so:
I have seen here in L’viv the eyes of Shashkevych,
The broad back of Kryvonis, the brow of Franko.
Grey-haired L’viv! Capital of my dreaming,
Epicentre of joys and all which I yearn,
My soul is expanding, I fathom your meaning,
But, L’viv, understand me some small part in return.
I have come here to you as a son, yearning warmly,
From the steppes where Slavuta his great legend weaves,
So that your heart, a lion’s heart, undaunted,
A small drop of strength into my heart might breathe.