Brother, if on the heels of war Western man celebrates his deeds,
Consecrates the memory of the fallen and builds monuments for heroes,
Do not yourself sing for the victors nor rejoice over those trampled by victorious wheels;
Rather kneel as I do, wounded, for the end of our dead.
Brother, if after the war a soldier comes home
And throws his tired body into the arms of friends,
Do not hope on your return for friends,
Hunger struck them down all to whom we might whisper our pain.

Brother, if the farmer returns to till his land,
And after long exile rebuilds a shack which cannon had wrecked,
Our waterwheels have dried up
And the foes have left no seedling except scattered corpses.
Brother, misery nestled everywhere - through our will.
Do not lament. Others do not hear our woe.
Instead follow me with a pick and spade that we may dig a trench in which to hide our dead.

Dear brother, who are we without a neighbour, kin or country?
We sleep and we wake clad in shame.
The world breathes our stench, as it did that of the dead.
Bring the spade and follow me - dig another trench for those still alive.