My native village Babchintsy, Mogilev-Podolsky district, Vinnytsia region, which I am madly in love with, is one of the most amazing in the world. I love my village, I love everything I look at: curly gardens in white dress of spring blossom, gray valleys in the living silver of morning dew, the smell of honey acacias, everything that grows, greens, rustles, tinkles, nods silver leaves and sings to me the most magical and holy of all songs — the song of life. 

The village, like a picturesque carpet woven by nature, is spread on the banks of the river Bushanka, which gurglingly rolls its waters into the blue distance, and only during the spring floods it becomes turbulent and not submissive. My happy, joyful, barefoot childhood passed on the banks of this wonderful little river. Here in my little childish soul were born the first winged dreams in which I rode on a pink horse. And also I call the river Bushanka tenderly Bushanochka, and if it could talk, it would tell a lot about human destinies of my ancestors-villagers.

In my wonderful village, on the banks of this river, real miracles happen in spring and summer. It dawns, the gray mist has lowered its white feet into the still sleeping river. And behind the blue-white playful clouds the first gentle rays of the sun barely break through. The wind gently caresses the branches of the mourning willows. The grasses covered with silver drops of morning dew rustle quietly. Clean intoxicating air with its coldness tenderizes the chest. Having driven away the night to rest comes the spring sunny day. And already in the evening a beautiful rainbow looks out of the river in a magic necklace. Alluring fairy-tale evenings here smell of dream-grass. Unreachable stars bathe in the blue sky. Mysterious ravines and winding paths, on which I ran barefoot as a child, are hushed in the night maze. The exhausted moon, wrapped in a white cloud, went to sleep.

Barely-barely heard the quiet, like a fairy tale melody of the night rustle of murmuring willows. And who only did not break and did not cut the sad willow, but it grows and lives like our glorious Cossack family. The willow grows from a stake, from a stump, from a small twig it branches, dreamily caresses its plump kitties. And snow-white cherries blossom around.

Some places in the village and behind the village grow silver-eyed mavka poplars, gently swaying their branches, and to them, the leaves quietly whisper: "Who carries me poplar in his soul, he breathes easier, and fate smiles". And behind the village, strong oaks stand as if on guard. Willow, snow-white cherry, silver-eyed poplar, strong oak and magical raspberry, guelder rose are forever joined in my heart with strong roots.

Willow — anguish, sadness;

Cherry — native home, warmth and comfort; 

Poplar — fate on the beaten path;

Guelder rose — symbol of love for mother and native land; 

The mighty oak — strength and unconquered Cossack spirit;

There, in my native village, I met my beloved wife Alla. My charming daughter Olya was born here. On this glorious land, she took her first steps. In autumn, yellow-winged autumn makes my village extremely beautiful. It spreads colorful carpets all over the valleys. 

How well, amidst the sad autumn, the last tear of October falls from the wet trees. Shrouded in a bluish fog, the Bushanka river is lulled, And the blue-blue sky looks at its reflection in the mirror water. Silent, sad, longing hangs in the air. Far away in the sky, curly clouds float like ships. The trees are wrapped in shawls of gray mists. They resemble a flock of fairy firebirds. The air breathes leaf rustling and crane sadness. Autumn sadness brings pleasant and sad memories from my distant youth. The mysterious silence seems to echo with footsteps. At this time, cranes' keys fly over my native village. And my heart fills with unbearable longing. It seems that their wistful chirping envelops the whole earth. And then sad thoughts arise that these are the souls of my fellow villagers, tortured by terrible famines, tortured by horrible repressions of moscow communist power, flying.

In that key, I mentally search for the winged soul of my grandfather Ignat and his brothers Vladimir and Vasily. Among them are probably the souls of the brave Babchinian rebels who were shot by the Communists. Or perhaps in that crane's key fly the souls of my fellow villagers, fearless warriors of Mother Ukraine, who died in the hard struggle, defending their native land from the German fascist invaders and russian rashists.

And life goes on, and my native village repeatedly ruined by Mongol-Tatars, Turkish janissaries, chopped by Polish nobility, trampled by heavy fascist boots, tormented by terrible famines, tortured by communist russian repressions, shouts to the whole world: "I still live and will live forever!"