| The spirit of Prussia will burn in hearts
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| Until the holy flame of Perkuno is burning
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| In the heart of sacred woods
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| Invisible for eyes of simple mortals
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| The thunder announces the birth of the hero
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| In nightly silence of the sleeping earth
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| And the lightning’s brightening the baby’s face
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| And his first cry that breaks the darkness
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| And fierce wind echoes the baby’s cry
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| And thrills the sky, anticipating the events
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| Tears off the leaves from ancient trees
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| Rejoices the great omen
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| The new-born mind as blank paper
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| Clean, empty and light like the calm surface of water
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| As the grown sprout tears the air apart
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| Gathers dust of life on the fresh leaves
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| And with the long root absorbing dirt
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| From all that are going to rotten near
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| The sprout is hardening, it doesn’t want to
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| But it will wither like those near that couldn’t leave
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| Born to be Defender of Native Land
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| Born to be rain, giving life
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| Born to be free as a proud bird
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| Flying in the sky
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| Born to be stronger than the sword and the storm
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| Born to be the river’s flow
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| Born to be boiling wolf’s blood
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| To be Flame of Hope
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| Born to be himself amongst the lost souls
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| The black hands of storm-clouds are clenching the sun
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| The wind is bringing anxiety, thrilling the ear
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| Beyond the dark horizon the seed of war is ripening
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| Bringing the smell of death
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| The warrior will fight for his people
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| For the rivers and forests of grey gods
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| For the holy flame of Perkuno
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| The sunlight is fading…
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| The day is dying away scratching the sky with its last rays
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| The last quiet day before the war
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| The last calm before the storm
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| The ground is trembling already
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| And Prussia stands still awaiting |