The foul weather was dictating me the lines
In a moist earth-hut during day or night.
For four and more years I was rhyming
The concrete with iron, and the lead with fire.
And if these records of the past
I read to you when meet again either,
Then let you feel the taste of gunpowder
On lips, when I describe it now.
And you, all catched with those feelings
Of the past days, forgotten time,
Might stay before my Muse, called infantry,
With agitation in your mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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