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With the shriveled hair on her head The hunch of her back And the callouses on her hands Which effortlessly show The works of her hands On her fatherland The son of the soil Mother Earth The same ground her Ancestors once planted and harvested For the means of daily bread So much so, to which they return The fruits of their labour As they are buried under Oh, how they cry and wail Over the ground, they once tilled And suffered worse fate Mother Earth Rest ye now thereof Leave it to the young ones to come But what do they do? Soil the plans which were Made on their behalf And the fingers that once fed them Hear the cries of the dead and forgotten Whose rest was disturbed By their own sons and daughters Who wish for the fall of their own brothers By the sword, the gun The pen and the paper Mothers beat their breasts And shake their heads Over the decline of the younger generation Oh, how man has fallen! ~Dark Unipovs