"Gunaydin", we say, come what may.

Wakefulness arrives with gentle care,

And with it, hope, beyond compare.

In times of need, a helping hand,

"Imdat" echoes across the land.

So here's to you, on this new day,

May joys abound, come what may.

Sizge de hoş künler, indeed,

A beautiful wish, in every deed.

May kindness guide us on our way,

And fill each moment, night and day.

Born from L'amor (love) that shines right through.

Confiança (trust) we hold so dear,

Ajuda (help) each other year by year.

In times of need, we lend a hand,

Together facing life's demand.

With Amistat as our guiding light,

We navigate through day and night.

Through laughter and tears, we share,

Our bond of friendship, beyond compare.

L'amor in our hearts does abide,

Ajuda and Confiança side by side.

So here's to Amistat, pure and bright,

A treasure we hold with all our might.

May it forever be our way,

To support each other, every single day.

Where cultures blend like colors in the night, we find the values that unite us strong, like "merki" friendship, where hearts belong.

From north to south, from east to west,

Our differences make our bond find rest,

In "saudade," Portuguese nostalgia's sway,

We learn to appreciate each passing day.

With "fierté" French pride, we stand tall,

And "hygge" Danish warmth, through it all,

In "gaeilge" Irish laughter, we delight,

Embracing heritage, shining with new light.

In this land of many tongues and lore,

We celebrate what makes us unique once more, for in our differences, we find our strength, a European tapestry, forever at length.

As we learn and share with care.

Six special words from cultures rare,

Join our festive holiday flair.

From Wales, "Shwmae" we say hello,

A greeting warm, a friendship to grow.

In Ireland's tongue, "Céad mile fáilte",

Means welcome home, where love does wait.

In Scotland's Highlands, "Ceud mile fàilte" too, Echoes warmth, a heart that's true.

From Cornwall, "Kerensa" shines so bright,

A love that guides through winter's night.

In Basque country, "Eguberri on", they cheer, Merry Christmas wishes, loud and clear. And lastly, "Zalig Kerstfeest" we say,

Dutch Frisian joy, on this merry day.

Minority languages softly meet,

A world of words that few may know,

Yet rich in culture, as the winds do blow.

Their speakers scattered, far and wide,

A patchwork quilt, with diverse pride,

From mountains high to valleys green,

Each dialect unique, like a dream unseen.

The Ainu tongue, a mystery still,

Spoken by few, on Japan's hills,

A language old, with stories told,

Of gods and spirits, young and old.

In Papua New Guinea's lush terrain,

Eight hundred tongues, a linguistic reign,

With clicks and chirps, a symphony plays,

As tribal voices weave their ancient ways.

The Yuchi language, rare and bright,

A lone star shining, in the night,

With only ten fluent speakers left,

A dying ember, of a cultural theft.

The Mapudungun, a Chilean voice,

Echoes strong, a resilient choice,

Despite the odds, it still prevails,

A testament to native tales.

In India's northeast, a linguistic nest,

Many tongues converge, and find their rest,

The Bodo language, a script so fine,

A story woven, like a traditional vine.

The Romani people's secret speech,

A hidden code, a wandering breach,

Through Europe's roads, they've made their way,

A nomadic tribe, in a modern day.

In Brazil's north, a Tupi refrain,

Echoes through, a tropical rain,

A language born, of forest deep,

Where indigenous roots, in history creep.

These minority tongues, a treasure rare,

A cultural wealth, beyond compare,

Though spoken by few, their value stands,

A precious heritage, in shifting sands.

Let us cherish these linguistic streams,

That flow like rivers, through human dreams,

For in their depths, a world is found,

A kaleidoscope, of cultures unbound.

So let us listen, to these gentle hush,

Of minority languages, in a fragile rush,

And honor their place, in our global stage,

A celebration, of diversity's engaged.

Minority languages whisper away,

Forgotten dialects, lost in time's sway,

Echoes of cultures, fading gray.

Their native speakers, few and rare,

Treasure each word, with love and care,

A heritage rich, yet hard to share,

As globalization's tide does glare.

But still they speak, with hearts aflame,

Passing down stories, myths, and names,

Through generations, a legacy claimed,

A language preserved, like a sacred flame.

Minority tongues entwine.

A weave of words, a cultural heart,

Breton, Welsh, and Kashubian's every part.

From Celtic shores to Baltic sands,

Love for heritage joins hands.

Basque whispers secrets, old and true,

While Frisian echoes, pure and new.

In Europe's rich linguistic fold,

Each voice a treasure to behold.

Though spoken by few, their charm remains,

A testament to diversity's sweet refrains.

Денъизнинъ шевкъи, юректе къалгъан.

Йылдызлар янып, гедже къара-къара,

Акъ шолынлар, учалар авада.

Бу къушлар сеслери, ширин, назик, тынч,

Къырымнынъ руху, эзгилер ичинде.

Бир алем севгиси, юректе джанып,

Джаным Къырым, сенде къалар аман.

The Hutsuls live in their cheerful way.

The trembita echoes, the wind sings along,

Our Carpathian home, where the heart belongs.

In a sheepskin coat, with an axe in hand,

The Hutsul walks proud through his native land.

The river runs swift, like a silver stream,

And the fire of freedom ignites his dream.

Oh, may the Carpathians always know peace,

With songs for the mountains that never will cease.

The Hutsul spirit, like an eagle, flies high,

Loving this homeland, beneath the vast sky.

Жүрегімде сезімдер, өмірімдің қылымдары.

Сезімдерім алтын, қылымдарым артық,

Караим тілінде сөздер ақылымда.

Disappearing dialects, lost with time,

Their stories whispered, like a forgotten rhyme.

Urumish, a language once so bright,

Studied by scholars, in morning light.

But as the years went by, it slowly faded,

As Ukrainian rose, its popularity jaded.

Few people knew, its secrets untold,

A dying language, with a story cold.

No longer spoken, no longer heard,

A piece of history, forever blurred.

Yet, we remember, its legacy remains,

A testament to languages' fragile reign.

Though gone, its memory stays near,

A reminder of words that once brought cheer.

We speak a language small but proud,
Malti is our song out loud.
With every kelma (word) that we say,
Our island's soul comes out to play.

From għodwa t-tajba (good morning) to il-lejl it-tajjeb (good night),
Our words are music, pure delight.
We greet with bonġu, smile with ħbiberija (friendship),
In every phrase, there’s love and history.

Let’s celebrate this tongue so true,
A bridge from old to something new.
Though minority, it stands so tall —
Malti belongs to one and all.

In fields where golden wheat still sways,
And rivers sing of ancient days,
A thousand voices softly thread
The stories of the words unsaid.

From Crimean Tatar lullabies,
To Hungarian under Zakarpattia skies,
The Bulgarian, Romanian tones,
Each echo carved in cobblestones.

The Gagauz speak in quiet pride,
Their heritage they will not hide.
The Polish bells in Lviv still ring,
Their alphabet a secret spring.

Yiddish whispers through the air,
Of songs and sorrows people bear.
Greek, from southern shores once sailed,
In homes where histories prevailed.

Though some may dwindle, nearly gone,
They rise again in children's song.
In classrooms, books, and signs restored,
Their voices find a stronger chord.

So let us guard these sacred roots,
In every poem, dance, and flute.
For Ukraine’s soul is not just one —
But many, shining like the sun.