by Nikola Vaptsarov

Winds toss the leaves yellow and withered,
three long years our homes we haven't seen.
There our wives believe they're widowed,
wring their hands and gaze toward Pirin.

Are not our night-marches dreary,
don't we for our children pine and mourn?
For a stone we look when weary,
a stone-pillow and a bed of thorns.

"Chief, at home our roofs are leaking!"
"Chief, in our wheat the weeds grow tall!"
- "Shoot up at the stars with hearts a-leaping!
Free and honest let us fall."