the village of lyakenska itself is torturing you, and you would have called out for such an ugly love yak by, not daring, hodzyabochi, clear eyes, love, udzyavochy, clear eyes, love, my handy pity, charming daughter. i won’t let the slick little lady, i’m annoyed. the boys rode to the fields and rode their horses. there, the kalia of the azeri dzyauchyna, the dzvyadzer lads dropped water, the paranoga brightened, the eyes were blue, the suns were sweet, the legs were bare, the russ, the braids, so walk, holy land of belarus. the birch trees and pine trees flooded my land, which is bukae scholya, with prayer. songs of bread on the steel, holy land of belarus, land, songs of the earth are sung, songs are sung , songs are sung of the sala, monastic songs are sung, the tumult is threatening, the battles have stagnated, here in the temple there is a thicket of milk, holy... oh, belarus, the land, here the pickle smells like a sorceress's rose, the baby sap of the race, the lakes of the padrovaks are sleeping here, spring on the wings of geese, the earth, the songs i sing. learn the prayers