Текст песни November - Слепота матерей

Honor is not washed in the blood,
Absolutely worthless -
Rab with a sword is always
No more than a slave with a sword.

Your mother blind with tears
In their righteous good for children,
Whose purity stinking mud,
Whose voice oozing with lies.

Our mother is also blind,
Our mothers are cruel
We did not know their kisses,
Only the fire and iron.

Matured, we became a vice,
All that you hate,
All what you are afraid,
Dirt on your white clothes.

Our mother did not love us
They sang us lullabies,
But one day, they showed us
Flowers growing along the trenches.

Our great mother,
Our blind mother:
Death - the mother of beauty,
The war - the mother of virtue.