On the 73rd anniversary of September 17, 1939 – when the Soviet Union invaded Poland as part of the Soviet-NAZI pact.
Look yonder – there in the distance, what comes over the horizon?
Some strange phantasm from preternatural dreams of Poles in grip of fever
A Woman in White, she rides a giant grain harvester, a red Bizon
All white garlanded with roses from the sacred bush, she is the Faith-Weaver
In the heart of wounded lions there is a ringing wilderness steppe
Hounded by wargs and wild bears for the sport of the Gods of dark
It is a hidden sacred grove of wild rose bushes cultivated in NEP
Drip, drip the blood of young children bastes the roast and bark
Strip the tree to its inner flesh and the marrow will delight
Cut into the lion meat as in days of old and your palette will melt
No need to worry what the West will say, Westerners aren’t that bright
Never mind the indignation of women, just loosen your belt
They came, under banner of Russian Red Soviet love of man’s lowest ambition
To hate that which is lofty, to revile that which is noble, to turn into excrement all…
…the beauty and honor of humans, to impose Proletarian submission
To stab a wounded nation in the back just as she stumbled to fall
Oh, fair lion, did you know that our hearts for you till today bleed?
You are our Ararat, our Jerusalem, you are our future song of deliverance
King of all the beasts who would dethrone you, patriarch of the faithful seed
We are your children, we are your third generation resistance!
They came under the Pagan symbols of the Hammer and Sickle in gold
Carrying their Lenin and Marx – like unholy religious icons of salvation
They came into Holy Poland and raped the land, killed the hope, into bondage sold
Communist allies to Hitler out of their hatred for beauty and honor’s station
The steppes cried out in wild agony screaming to the Mother of God – Ever Virgin Mary
The wild hordes of darkness gagged the mouth with corpses, half-twitching
Even so, in the heart of hearts the drops of hope’s dew glistened with worry
Till the West wind signed its name in blood and wiped the dew with a ring
A ring of chains and shackles clasp onto the lion led into a cage
To be fed with maggots and poked with slogans, and left to rot in pain
But the hearts of lions beat to the tune of Saint Lambert’s rage
And a pyramid shall rise illuminating to the East the wild plain
The lion is marching proudly beside the Woman in White, a free beast once more
Fairest of maidens, tell me this is Truth incarnate and not a delusion
She hands me Hope in a basket of Love and Justice opens a door
A White Eagle flies above, I fall to my knees, Faith will make true the vision.