Sleeping in hearts of snow-white men,
Who froze forever in taunting blizzard,
Great Bear is torpid, the sky is it’s den,
The northern wind is called “The White Wizard.”
Let the snow of this country shelter the corps,
Hide their navy-blue flame of eyes.
The book of their freedom still quietly warps
From having been held over the lies.
My fingers can’t move, my limbs are shaking,
I hear the roaring rattle of rifles.
Ay, fatherland, you are still coarsely raking
Down this game written in cyphers.
One day our Lent will come to its end,
And maybe we’ll soak the blood off the ground.
We are like children who were rent
From their mothers’ arms. Our cry… was it loud?