In war we think to ourselves the tragic hues,
But then the innocent men strive to a goal,
For it is a soul of collections, of abandonment,
That swerves according to tastes, feelings stop.
In war we have lightning, the storms of different colours,
Striving is achieving according to the rank,
Feelings abruptly falter, feelings stare at you,
But where is the stronger body of light and dark?
An evil, abnormal one is lurking in the shadows of right,
Writing the poem that endangers the enemy,
A real enemy appears with a thorny crown of despair,
A ready art dismantles the armies of ancient happiness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem