We found the little captain at the head;
His men lay well-aligned.
We touched his hand &mdash stone cold &mdash and he was dead,
And they, all dead behind,
Had never reached their goal, but they died well;
They charged in line, and in the same line fell.
They well-known rosy colours of his face
Were almost lost in grey.
We saw that, dying and in hopeless case,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem