The swing on which I sit

is rising over a precipice.

I notice another death

and the grandeur

of all the evening chandeliers is breaking.

They burned down the Armenian churches,

and in Ukraine the occupiers

tied dark bandages

on the reason of humanity.



Morning and evening they fed on chauvinism

and looked for a pack that would justify their evil.



Heavenly violin,

open the gates of paradise

for the brave sons of mother Ukraine,

I ask you for a handkerchief for the bloody tear of Georgia

and do not forget the broken flight of Moldova.



I do not want dead sunflower flowers,

but I ask for a land without earthquakes.