Foreign Land is a reinterpretation of a traditional Ukrainian strokova (indentured servant’s) song. Born out of hardship, this genre once gave voice to the thousands of girls who were sent away to work in foreign households. They were often as young as twelve, and rarely returned home. Maria, grandmother of Marichka, Daughters of Donbas co-founder, was one of these girls. This is an ancient folk lament, a mother’s voice, foretelling the plight of stolen children today.

On Sunday morning the blue sea played with the waves A mother packed up her daughter To leave for a strange land To a strange land with strange people Oh, who will pity you, my daughter? - Those who will beat me will pity me I’ll never again live with you, my mother - When, my daughter, should I expect you to come home? - When the grass in the garden grows, my mother The grass grew and grew and began to dry The mother was waiting for her daughter to return, and began to cry - Did you hear, my mother, how I came to you? How I flew as a bird above your window? How did I cooed like a dove? - If, my daughter, I could hear you I would open all doors and windows To let you fly in

Music and lyrics — based on a Ukrainian folk song Arrangement — Aslan Gotov

A rusalka is an ancient mythical creature which our ancestors believed to dwell in fields, forests and rivers. Ancient ritual songs are sung for rusalkas even today. Our rusalka song is a challenge to those who seek to steal from us. This is the archaic melody of our land. As long as it continues through our voices, our identity cannot be erased. This is a song of sacred protection, our spell against evil and bad spirits.

Home a hell of old growth stumps Marsh a mud of memories Don’t get bogged down in these parts Your kind won’t last a day in here While witches still fly, while roosters have yet to crow, Come here, something arises, ‘neath the oak something walks. Rusalky sat on a white birch, rusalky asked girls for shirts. Long fingers and nails so sharp Tongue forked round serrated teeth Moss grows down beneath her parts Weeds braided from ear to ear While witches still fly, while roosters have yet to crow, Come here, something arises, ‘neath the oak something walks. “Girls, my friends, give me your shirts. Though I’m thin, give me a thin one.” Here live us the backless ones Many voices of dead sons You are right to quake in fear Send your sinful children here

Music — Zoë Santo, Alina Kuzma Lyrics — Zoë Santo, a Ukrainian folk song, Taras Shevchenko

Peremanochka, the enchantress. She seduces, intoxicates, and lures victims into her web. Like a black bird, she sits on your chest and pecks out your heart, erasing feelings for everything you love and wiping your memory of all paths home.

Enchantress, little black jackdaw, Oh early, early — black jackdaw. She lured the gray-winged falcon, Oh early, early — the gray-winged falcon. I didn’t lure him, Oh early, early — I didn’t lure him. He himself flew to me, Oh early, early — flew to me. Enchantress, beautiful girl, Oh early, early — beautiful girl. She lured a young brave man, Oh early, early — a young brave man. I didn’t lure him, Oh early, early — didn’t lure him. But the rue had grown — I wove a wreath, Oh early, early — I wove a wreath. I wove the wreath and set it on the Danube, Oh early, early — on the Danube set it free. By the mill — the viburnum stands, Oh early, early — leliu-popeliu, viburnum

Music, arrangement — Alina Kuzma, Zoë Santo Lyrics — based on a Ukrainian folk song

This song is based on a lyrical folk song in which a boy asks a girl riddles. We reimagine it as a dialogue between a grandfather and his granddaughter, in tribute to 12 year old Kira from Mariupol who experienced the death of her father, the occupation of her city, deportation and captivity in russia, and psychological trauma. Her grandfather, upon heroically finding Kira in russia and successfully bringing her back home, would ask her riddles to jog her memory, and remind her who she was, where her home was, and her family’s love for her.

Oh, the maple tree grows Grandfather meets his granddaughter Oh, my granddaughter, my little berry Guess this riddle for me Oh, what grows without roots Oh, what burns without flame Oh, what twists around the tree Oh, what dries up the heart Oh, what is silent, but has a voice Oh, what cries, but has no tears Hope grows without roots And love burns without flame A path home twists around the tree Being far from you dries the heart Thoughts are silent, but have a voice The soul cries, but has no tears

Music — Marichka Lyrics — Marichka, based on a Ukrainian folk song Arrangement — Aslan Gotov

Lullabies are the oldest and most sacred genre of any culture on the planet. A lullaby is the first comfort from a mother to child. They are not just songs to soothe young ones to sleep. They are meditations, a mystery of the past, a place filled with enigmatic characters, with healing, with incantation. Sometimes lullabies echo very closely with laments. Falling asleep is a small moment of death, a crossing into another reality, the realm of dreams; so that you can wake up, and with the new sun, be born again. This song is for the children who have been stolen, and those who have been taken forever.

Lullay, lullay, doves flew in from the fields, and sat on the fence in red boots. Hush, doves, be quiet, a child is sleeping, do not wake her. The Lord is watching over the child and her fate. The good time has come, the little one is sleeping. Sleep, child, sleep until mother returns from the field. She will bring you three periwinkle blossoms. The first is to make you drowsy, The second is to give you good sleep, The third is for your happiness.

Music, lyrics — based on a Ukrainian folk song Arrangement — Alina Kuzma, Zoë Santo