A treasure is our language that surges
From deep shadows of the past,
Chain of precious stones that scattered
All over our ancient land.

A burning flame is our language
Amidst a people waking
From a deathly sleep, no warning,
Like the brave man of the stories.

Our language is the greenest leaf
Of the everlasting forests,
Gentle river Dniester's ripples
Hiding starlight bright and shining.

Our language is more than holy,
Words of homilies of old
Wept and sung perpetually
In the homesteads of our folks.

A treasure will spring up swiftly
From deep shadows of the past,
Chain of precious stones that scattered
All over our ancient land.