Translated by A. Z. Foreman - On Not Emigrating lyrics

They're not my kind who left the land To enemies and plundering. I do not heed their vulgar praise. My songs are not for them to sing. But I ever do I grieve for exiles, Like inmates, like the nearly dead. Dark is the road you wander, rovers, As wormwood fills your foreign bread. But here at home where conflagrations Consume the last of youth, we go Unbeaten by the blast, our bodies Did not deflect a single blow. We know a later reckoning Shall vindicate each hour's pain. We are the tearless of the earth. We are the proud. We are the plain.