Out of the womb of war we cry to you,

We who have yet to be,

We who lie waiting in the strong loins of time, unformed and hesitant,

We who shall be your sons and your slim daughters.

In the womb of war shall you beget us, and with the seal of the war-god shall we be sealed;

In ditches shall we be begotten, of lust-crazed soldiers on the screaming women of the enemy.

Of camp followers and scavengers shall we be conceived, of the weakling and the sick.

We shall be begotten in secret, stolen meeting of man and wife, drunk with weariness the man, and blind with terror the woman.

In bitterness of soul shall we be borne, and deeply shall we suck the pap of hatred. Revenge shall be our daily bread, and with blood-lust shall we be nourished.

Yea, in our bodies shall we bear the seal of the war-beast.

Our hearts shall be thin and naked as your sword-blades, and our souls ruthless as your cannon.

And we shall pay—year by year, in our frail bodies and our twisted souls shall we pay

For your glorious patriotism.

Out of the womb of war we cry to you,

We who have yet to be!