When, in 1919, Braca came back from a far battlefield where he was a soldier
He'd tell us about how a bullet hit him, and then pulled up his sleeve and showed it to us
And we, we were youngsters, and we, we were youngsters
Braca used to tell us about the smell of sea and about a patrol he'd ran from
and about how he cursed some major and then later did his time in jail because of it
And we, we were youngsters, and we, we were youngsters
He used to tell us about how he crossed over the Carpathian mountains, how bullets buzzed like swarms of bees
He said: War is a bloody thing you know, but I don't pitty the people nor the villages
Hey, I feel sorry for the horses
When Braca came back, in 1919, he'd tell stories every night in the neighborhood
How many girlies he had on the way and about cannons plowing meadows
And we, we were youngsters, and we, we were youngsters
And as soon as Braca would step out of the yard, our neighborhood crowd would gather
And our eyes were big, hearts full and imagination boyish
Well yes, because then we were youngsters, well yeah, we were youngsters then
... Read More (NB: The first lines might have been changed in the original translation)