The spirit of Prussia will burn in hearts
Until the holy flame of Perkuno is burning
In the heart of sacred woods
Invisible for eyes of simple mortals
The thunder announces the birth of the hero
In nightly silence of the sleeping earth
And the lightning's brightening the baby's face
And his first cry that breaks the darkness.
And fierce wind echoes the baby's cry
And thrills the sky, anticipating the events
Tears off the leaves from ancient trees,
Rejoices the great omen.
The new-born mind as blank paper,
Clean, empty and light like the calm surface of water,
As the grown sprout tears the air apart,
Gathers dust of life on the fresh leaves.
And with the long root absorbing dirt
From all that are going to rotten near
The sprout is hardening, it doesn't want to,
But it will wither like those near that couldn't leave.
Born to be Defender of Native Land
Born to be rain, giving life
Born to be free as a proud bird
Flying in the sky
Born to be stronger than the sword and the storm
Born to be the river's flow
Born to be boiling wolf's blood
To be Flame of Hope
Born to be himself amongst the lost souls
The black hands of storm-clouds are clenching the sun
The wind is bringing anxiety, thrilling the ear.
Beyond the dark horizon the seed of war is ripening
Bringing the smell of death.
The warrior will fight for his people,
For the rivers and forests of grey gods,
For the holy flame of Perkuno
The sunlight is fading
The day is dying away scratching the sky with its last rays
The last quiet day before the war
The last calm before the storm
The ground is trembling already
And Prussia stands still awaiting