Do not hurry to climb Golgotha
when suddenly they drive you on—
the rattle of the carbine’s laughter,
the clanking of shackles dragging on.
Be you drunk or faithless still,
you’ll learn, afar with dawning dread:
no chains remain that grant men will,
in this blind country of the dead.
You’ve never lived in calm or plenty,
nor raised your children into light;
you’ve never praised your silver-haired father
for the years he bore through endless night.
No home have you built, no tree you’ve planted,
no roots sunk deep into the soil—
so why, O man, in fate’s cruel ledger,
did you sign your name in foil?
Your mind will mix with foreign dust,
your flesh with strangers’ hands will blend;
too late you’ll see, as all men must,
how close the circle of your end.
Not there, where bullets seek their aim,
but where deceit and ribbons gleam—
where generals trade truth for fame—
there reigns your birthright, your regime.