Rozbite oddziały [English translation]

From defeat - not first - lifting face guards,

They cross, dreamlike, the final frontiers.

Through customs they smuggle their call to arms

and the last bullet, that’ll hide in their mouths.

At tables of compassion they wallow in guilt

And sing to the foreign of the one Not Yet Lost

Their blood saved, they give away for nothing

to anyone, who would rejoin them with army.

They dye uniforms and countries they wander,

and sometimes they also shoot at each other.

Under any standard, but not a white flag,

they still look for victory - the routed squad.

They come at twilight to women they don’t know

and where they pass over - boys will be born.

When they’re back, chased by another storm

Unreadable they’ll find their own sons.

They write for them - every night - memoirs

un-translate-able into foreign tongues.

They suffer when victorious world laughs at them

forgetting that the wise

never laugh at a lost battle.