The wheat stands ripe, ear to ear.

The wind stirs the grain — waves roll across it, as if it were the sea. Take a slow look around. The field speaks to you.

In prehistoric times, the Trypillians settled here. Later, the field witnessed countless battles of Scythians and Sarmatians, princely campaigns, and Cossack victories. Farewells and greetings.

Here passed the Chumak roads: ox-drawn carts laden with salt and fish traveled from Crimea northward, and then returned — now filled with grain. Here children played hide and seek, vanishing and reappearing among the wheat. Here people rejoiced, for the field yielded the second harvest of the year.

Now you are here.

Heirs of this land. Those who love, sow and defend it.