Katyn 1940 " The last letter" (beautiful song and video clip)

When listening to the radio couple of days ago I came across this ballad about Katyn massacre, performed by a Polish singer Lech Makowiecki.

I found it absolutely beautiful and so much adequate to the topic. When listening to it I could hardly refrain myself fom crying (such a shame, I'm a grownn up man ;-)

" Katyn 1940. The last letter

I'm jotting a few words for You today,
Although, I know, You won't receive them again,
I'm writing from here to You for the last time,
Goodbye My Love - my time has come.

I still dream the same dreams at nights,
You are the pretty, young lady then,
Son must have grown up - hug him from me,
Now it's even harder to leave,
Now it's even harder to leave.

In the moments like this-you really want to live,
Everything is meaningless, only to be alive,
But the good God gave no choice,
Today I'm standing at the end of my road.

They ordered us to get off the car- it's here,
This birchen forest is my tomb,
I'll just sigh for the last time,
I'll just think for the last time
... I love You ..."

Pawel Kukiz - 17 september (Poland’s not abroad...):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6iZhif46Qg

English Translation:

Pole in the hole down below
Poland’s not abroad, you know.
Another round of vodka.
Before the next round
In the back of the head
And down the pit they go
Body on body in a pile
And Vanya will tread ‘em down
‘Cos the bulldozer’s bust.

So pour out another, Grisha,
To Vanya, with Russian cheers
‘Cos the bulldozer’s bust,
So many of them still to go,
And we’re getting sleepy and slow.

Work, work, too much work
The old man’s going mad,
And the weather’s getting bad,
And we’ve still so many to do,
My trigger finger’s aching,
The gun’s burning into my hand,
And how many more will they send?
We don’t get a moment’s rest.

Well, what’s up Grisha?
Not saying you’re sorry for ‘em?
Pole in the hole below
It’s only a polish lag.

Let Vanya sprinkle a li’l lime
On that last heap,
Lime’ll let the memories off,
Then our consciences will sleep,
And then, the pain to ease
On top they’ll plant a grove of trees
The truth will never come out,
And Stalin will decorate each of us.

So many of ‘em still left,
What with the bulldozer bust,
Some still moving down below,
Drink down, Grisha, and let’s go.

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