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 jusified by it.
The altar cannot be destroyed,
the altar of lies, that multiplies shapes.

The spotless picture, the painless lights,
the only harbours of the terrible night.

We are the children of the spirit and the brothers of strength,
whose promises are not fulfilled.
We are the black ghosts 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.