Verse 1

Vlada Cherednechenko, from the village lane,

Small house, lean years, still he jokes through the rain.

Papa sells tires, knows each tread by name,

Mama keeps the books, every column in its frame.

Vlada loads up Dota, says, “This round’s my day,”

Then the screen says defeat and the rank slips away.

He blames the little lag, then he laughs at the score,

Next match, same brave promise, same loss at the door.

Chorus

Oh, Vlada, easy now, let the whole day pass,

Vita’s waiting by the gate where the tall weeds brush.

A little village story, told soft and slow,

With clay on his hands and nowhere else to go.

Verse 2

Some days he gets carried off, comes back with a grin,

Kicks off the dusty shoes and lets the evening in.

He likes to knead the clay till a small shape appears,