DIFFERENT UNIFORMS

Let they build no statue for me,
In honour of me, nor in my memory,
Bid me no grand farewell fit for kings,
Let none do any mourning and crying.
Let me lay in the trenches, deep in the puddle,
After I fall, in the thick of the battle.

Just take my helmet, and take it to the Fuhrer,
Lay it on his table, in front of his dinner,
Tell him quickly, before he gets angry,
Tell him, and tell him quickly:

“This belonged to a soldier, Herr Fuhrer,
Who’d fallen and will return never,
Who with his last breath cursed you aloud,
Who in his death can never be proud.”

What have I done to deserve my death?
When the Fuhrer merely slouches behind his desk,
After he waged war with a proud roar
And sees not all these horror and gore.
All for the sake of his pride and greed,
Disguised as what the state wants and mortally needs.

How different am I from this French I’d just shot?
Cowardly I feel, for he saw it not.
And the Briton I found broken in two,
Doesn’t he deserve to live as much as I do?

When the time comes, honour me not,
Leave me alone, let me just rot,
For ashamed am I to bear these weapons,
And to kill and maim my distant brethrens,
Just because they come not from where I come from,
Just because they are clad in different uniforms.