How many songs have been written about it, how many words have been written and said. My Old Soul Chernihiv…
This city remembers a lot. It remembers both right and wrong. It sounds with children's laughter, the cobblestones on its Krasna Square, and church bells. My hometown… There is no better place for me. It rocked me and bathed me in the sun, it raised me in its green crib. How I love my Chernihiv!
I remember a pleasant noise in Yalivshchyna on holidays, and the crowd near the church on Val on Easter. This is the only city where I am not afraid of the crowd. After all, all Chernihiv residents are like brothers and sisters.
I remember warm evenings near the marvelous Desna. If you only knew how hauntingly beautiful it is on the Golden Coast in summer evening!
I remember the beautiful hoary houses, which gave away the age of the city.
And then it happened… Chernihiv howled, it was in pain. The heavy hand of war threatened its gray head.
They tortured Chernihiv… They mocked my city… They found it funny… It groaned but stood, defending its children. Old Soul, it knew better than anyone what the moskal regime was. He had already experienced it before.
Now my old Chernihiv is flourishing again. It withstanded. Its head is injured, and it bleeds, nevertheless it blooms. They did not pass…