In its summer dress it floats away through Poland,
the scent of oil in the piston bolts comes through,
bits the gate locks, pliers grab city and town like big jaws made of chains .
First there was Minsk, fences, climbed walls,
There were bent pipes rattling in the boiler,
It carried him on pointed feet and shoulders,
zä The trough pours liquid water down the meter on the other beach.
Stalks carried children from the cradle into the ice,
Racks hiss, blood on rust-contaminated ice,
Here are the bleeding ones Number
that will once break your soul,
you are not and were not.
There is a pusher pushing masses over the Urals,
and filling ruins with withering toes,
/>From every fifth chamber, traces shine into the sky,
Which already pays for your suffering.
Comfortably covered in cement-soaked steel struts,
A shadow there that draws two steaming ones Tubs through mud,
to engine blocks, and tanks roll on
over horns in the brass ox's mouth.
Do you know the march?
The belt-fed fist freezes in the ice
br/>In position like fingers from another time.
Do you know the march?
Blood also dripped from machines,
frozen on rust-infested ice.

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