March my men, to the truth of your path
Let destiny be the lamp to show us light
Over the stones of despair and thorns of fear
Forward we go to the war-field of final fight.

Oh! Majesty, I hear the oracle-bird’s howl
It sounds as the bad omen, shall we return?

The bird of prophecy? Hunt it down right now
I know better, that our future is unpredictable
But I don’t want another step turning back
So, I order it to be put to death immediately.

Oh! Majesty, but there is an egg in the nest-
Of the killed bird, the forest deity sleeps in it.

Let the deity be stored in an earthen pot
For a pot made of earth, and earth is mother
Holy mother to men who fear not to go back-
To that mother’s open and affectionate heart.

Ah! Majesty, I see the wolves wearing masks
They are fast approaching us, shall we retreat?

Throw knives at their heads, make killing an art
Before any battle, the doubts need to be knifed
Wear those masks, but they will not help conceal-
The mind’s worries spread all across your face.

But Majesty, what will happen to our souls-
If we die of defeat in that following fierce war?

Braver souls who go down fighting will return-
As butterflies to accompany the morning sun
But those who fled will come back as moths
Unable to flap their ugly wings even at night.

Then Majesty, what are those female butterflies-
Whose wings are prettier than our waving flags?

Those are the returning souls of many mothers
Who lost their lives during difficult child births
They sacrificed their lives for the country’s sons
And are back to see their sons being bold at war.

Dear Majesty, ahead are the flames of forest fire
The rising smoke appears like a serpent's head!

Behead this coward, his blood will quench the fire
Let him be the offering to all his household gods
Let his spirit be nailed on to the next fallen log
We march forward, leaving any timid souls to rot

And

Thus he bravely led his troops, waged a noble war
To win back our forgotten freedom’s promised land.