Don't be sad that the autumn is at threshold,
The winter is not like the gloomy crypts.
Summer's gone, forget alarms you should,
Remember the Vertep of borning Christ.
He was born to save us and moralise
Incessantly, in throesing He was dying.
Beyond the mists flaunt Gate of Paradise,
The ashberry tell us His love undying.
The blood of wars, tear washed the Russia,
Wheat fields are sunny worried under sky.
We are Her Christian daughters and sons,
As if her birches, poplars we forever fly.