In a row for two the horses move forward,
slowly, through the morning mist:
the sun, painfully rose up from East,
extracts feeble reflections from the armours,
not even if they were mines of low-value gems
good to adorn the necks of poor girls.
why those men rose up from their camp beds
when it was still dark, and worn on their shoulders
like new Atlases, the weight of the fatigue
and of the efforts of a hard life?
which is the prize that, with bare brests,
is waiting for them, waving a large rag
that brings the colors of their homeland?
victory, is the name of that naked girl,
who just left a vile brothel,
and that is calling them to Fight and Honor,
but be careful, you courage addicts,
because, if you get just a bit closer,
you'll be able to see how thin is her body,
and how withered and dried up
are her little poisonous brests:
she wields a weapon as old as the world,
which is called sickle, and does not sparkle
in the sunlight, because it's stained
with so much blood that you would never
be able to imagine it.
so, abandon that poisonous lover,
and remember that, at the end of the fight,
there is never Victory, but only Death:
in a war, everyone loses. even the winners,
because mankind is just on thing.