For the effect of elevated language is not to persuade the hearers
But to entrance them; and at all times, in every way
What transports us with wonder is more telling
Than what merely persuades or gratifies us
Winter came to the Ostfront
And froze up the mud
The ghosts still haunt us
Their bones underfoot
But those spirits guide us
As surely as bullets find us
Our bones will lie with theirs
On the plains of the Rus
Mosin Nagant
Send me to hell
That I may pay for my father's sins
Mosin-Nagant
Take me to the flames
That I may at least warm my hands
From dust I was born
All my bone and blood
Oh, the poetry that
I return to mud
The battlefield harmony
Too beautiful to be a dream
Will be a minor third between
My dying scream
Mosin Nagant
Send me to hell
That I may pay for my father's sins
Mosin-Nagant
Take me to the flames
That I may at least warm my hands
Blood softened
Mud coffin
When the poppy's grow o'er my head
Tell your children why blood was shed
Tell them why so many are dead
When the poppy's feed on my head