Since when, sons of truth, are you the brothers of night
What colours your hands with the redness of blood

The explosion in the night is the flower of woe,
Nothing can be justified by it.
The altar cannot be destroyed,
The altar of lies that multiplies forms.

The immaculate image, the painless lights,
The only harbours of the terrible night.

We are children of the spirit and the brothers of strength,
Whose promises are unfulfilled.
We are the black phantoms of this world,
We sing the mad image of woe.

The explanation is the whip and you bleed:

Break the mirror of the world for the hundredth time,
All your efforts are in vain. We have overcome the night:
Our debt has been paid

And the light is ours.

Tomaž Hostnik, 1982