These are the children of war,
Sharp mannered, and knowing no fairytales.
Do not caress their heads, for they
Do not understand your sympathetic nurturing.
Time has instead nurtured them with cruelty,
Mocking them for not believing in childhood,
And for the years they’ve forgotten,
As children living with death as their neighbour.
The years when they forgot:
The hands of their mothers, and the care of their strict fathers,
The happy days, full of sun - without end, and without account -
All those who have forgotten how their mothers once loved them;
Time’s cruelty has surely adopted.
The wounds of their gentle hearts ache,
Burned by the ruthless flames of war, but
As if tempered against the harsh wind, like damascus steel,
Steadily freezing them to death.
Do not speak of childhood to these children - rather, you should speak of bloody battles,
Of the severe importance in the peoples’ leadership, and of the good within this unjust dispute,
Of our epoch, of furious evil, of life and of death, and of the glory in zenith,
Of everything that lives on this earth - With them as your equals, you should speak.
You cannot merely touch the children’s souls, with your affection,
You must speak to them of your fears,
For they themselves can not be frightened,
They, who were raised among death, among the ashes.
The children’s fear of war once terrified them,
But there’s no longer fears of such a thing,
To scare the Chechen children -
Those children, who pity the frightened and alone - The children of war.
amandla
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