For as long as I can remember,
The windows always glowed for me,
In the room filled with quiet spring,
And embroidered towels on the wall.
In that sacred, peaceful chamber,
A child’s heart would read and know
Shevchenko’s kind and watchful eyes,
And golden patterns in a row.
Mother, your children are like birds,
Spreading wings into the sky.
Mother, to your tender room,
We’ll return again by and by.
That endless childhood temptation –
Open the door and you will see,
A table dressed in Sunday white
And mother waiting patiently.
For as long as I can remember,
That white cloth always shone so bright.
In your room, dear mother, I know,
Every day felt like Sunday light.
Mother, your children are like birds,
Spreading wings into the sky.
Mother, to your tender room,
We’ll return again by and by.
Maybe far from home and shelter,
My wings will falter in the air.
The star will fade, and after that –
No more nightingales anywhere.
Son, remember this, my son –
No matter where life takes your flight,
All may leave their mother’s home,
But none forget its gentle light.
Mother, your children are like birds,
Spreading wings into the sky.
Mother, to your tender room,
We’ll return again by and by.
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Daniel K. - End consumer
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Iris H. - End user
