I did not see the war, but I felt the horror by my roots,
From the stories of his father, who tirelessly repeated about her.
Blood puddles appeared on the white snow,
The lamentations of widows, and the ridge of nameless graves.
There the earth hummed, choking with pain and groan,
An annoying whistle pressed tightly in my head!
Every bush of grass, every stone served as an icon,
Where, merging with the earth, they prayed to an ominous fate.
I have not seen the war - only she is to blame before us,
For the suffering of those who lie on the battlefield!
These are the ones who averted trouble with bayonets,
Imprisoning his life forever under the immortal granite.
These are those who did not spare themselves in their full growth,
Who rushed to the bunker, raising fighters to attack,
Who walked half of Europe to the beaten land clinging to,
For the freedom of their sons, mothers and fathers.
I have not seen the war, but many stories have been told,
Where once was a boy from a burning hut - in his arms,
Yes, under the age-old oak, on the grass, wrapped in a blanket,
Only breaks around, gave rise to anxiety and fear!
Like a sudden plaque tickled the strained nerves
Like a parental home, it was like a blazing haystack
And I probably never performed a song about
If only the age-old oak would not save me from my father's death!
I have not seen the war ...
