A storm cleanses the forests,
And with them the gardens,
It fells the failing roofs,
Leaving the strong to stand,
It will force the healthy to flee,
So they later return
To clean up
And grow better.

Horde,
Locusts
And earthquakes,
Frost, water or fire
Bring misfortune and temptations,
An itch of soles and palms.

And you, beaten Ukraine,
Blackened from ruins and fires,
Shattered and washed in blood,
You will be consecrated, you will rise and yet bloom.