U smitnyk skydayut' v nash chas
Lyudy te, shcho bulo do nych v pershyi raz,
Shcho isnuye vze dovhi roky.
Ye taki styli, shcho vichno zyvi.

Pryspiv:
Ya bachyv u smitnyku lystok paperu,
A pero u moyiy ruci, yak medium dushi.
Ty z kazesh ne pysaty,
Yakshcho ye dumky taki.
To shcho, vidpuskaty
Pisni, shcho ydut' vid dushi?

Shche ya povynen skazaty odne,
Shcho spiv dushi – ce zavzdy shchos' nove.
Ta nemozlyvo spivaty pisni ci,
Yakshcho rivnyatys' pid ramky stari.

A yak – ty dumav? – stvoryly oti
Vsi styli, vsi styli, shcho y dosi zyvi?
Ce vse – dushi pochuttya,
Shcho povertayut' na krashche zyttya.