How beautiful you are, lucid daughter of the mountains,
so graceful in your natural beauty,
your diaphanous depths are not troubled by the tempests rage!
Yet, alas, you poor one,
Fearful tempests, terrible storms are threatening you.
From the warm south they will come
raging across your fertile plains.
Alas, not long away is that day.
Clear sky above you,
hail of bullets around you,
and rain of blood and stream of tears,
thunder and lightning.
Swords will cut here,
blood will run knee deep,
our blood will feed you,
enemy blood will spoil you!
Simon Gregorčič, Soči