Steel Blood of Donbas
Steel thunders across the broken steppe,
the sky is a swarm of foretold death.
No time to pray,
no time to flee,
the thick black mud forces you to resist.
In the sunken trench,
with a broken rifle,
the buzz of drones hovers beside you.
We are not invincible—the flesh knows it,
but the bone of Donbas never crumbles.
Feel the roar of the burning air!
Feel the tremor of the trembling earth!
There is no surrender on the frontline!
The will is harder than red-hot iron!
CYBORGS OF THE MUD,
STANDING IN HELL!
TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO DAYS OF WINTER!
THEY DID NOT BREAK US,
THEY DID NOT BEND US!
THEY NEVER BROKE THE STEEL THAT FORGES US!
The refractory plant is a stronghold of rubble,
four against twenty—and still we don’t surrender.
The withered sunflower sways on the wire,
a yellow sun that lights up hunger.
One hundred and forty-eight days under sun and frost,
no water, no bread,
but with a soul wide open.
The drone that hunts you,
the bomb that falls,
do not erase the promise that no one takes away.
Feel the roar of the burning air!
Feel the tremor of the trembling earth!
There is no surrender on the frontline!
The will is harder than red-hot iron!
CYBORGS OF THE MUD,
STANDING IN HELL!
TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO DAYS OF WINTER!
THEY DID NOT BREAK US,
THEY DID NOT BEND US!
THEY NEVER BROKE THE STEEL THAT FORGES US!
It’s not a flag,
it’s not a hymn of glory,
it’s the face of the brother who holds up your story.
It’s the hand extended in the darkness of the trench,
it’s the voice that murmurs: “Hold on—the fight is not in vain.”
We are the mud,
the bone,
the rage and the scream,
the human wall that rises infinite.
CYBORGS OF THE MUD,
STANDING IN HELL!
TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO DAYS OF WINTER!
THEY DID NOT BREAK US,
THEY DID NOT BEND US!
THEY NEVER BROKE THE STEEL THAT FORGES US!
...Donbas does not kneel.
...Donbas is not for sale.
...Donbas resists.