歌词翻译 (English)
Bastille
The fall of the Bastille is the most serious revolt in the French Revolution. On July 14, 1789, revolting people surged into the Bastille located in the east of Paris, then destroyed the cannons and eliminated the guards and jailers within only a few hours; Prisoners in the Bastille, who had yielded before the excessive severity of the arbitrary Bourbon family and had to await their death, were finally set free and screamed an exclaiming of nature from struggling for freedom. This revolt was never nothing in history, thus let us imagine, how crazy and furious they were.
Here comes the rough cry from the top of Paris,
Uncontrollably tolling like an hurricane,
Not any more the peaceful tune;
A chanteuse, not mild as usual,
Bursts out sending a sudden yell,
Furiously, starvingly, grinningly,
It rolls through all tranquil rivers and peaks,
Every slumbering lone tomb and plain,
Stirs thousands of stones up, into the sky,
Sparks fill the sky, distributing fragments frightening!
Sparks fill the sky, distributing fragments insane,
The heavily guarded Bastille, is boiling
Over the iron pot. The midnight is no longer that still,
From the distance, the cry of battle, the sonorous fight
Interrupt every dream, rouse every sleeping one.
Open two eyes in hunger, looking upwards,
What is so grave and in rush,
Hitting heart of each of them?
Hearken, the voice of thousands of crying people,
"We need freedom! We need bread!"
In the Bastille, every wounded prisoner,
Gnawed by the wounds as by snakes.
Boiling blood flows in the weary dream,
And this time, they forget the pain and remind of the cry:
Thousands of yellings, like tigers,
Shaking the world and as well the forest!
Even your heavy and tight chains
Cannot fetter thousands of rebelling hearts;
One day shall the subterraneanly buried lives,
Yell and turn over.
Layered chains in hands and feet are
Weapons, which insanely shout on the iron wall.
Thousands there are lighting fire balls in the distance,
Thousands here are screaming inside the prison,
Shattering the tiles on eaversdrop, squeezing out
The heavily-guarded iron fence of the Bastille!
The dishonor, which they have born for decades,
Rushes in ebullition like a sail blown with wind.
Bastille, the prisoners of the Bastille,
Rush to spikes and blades.
From the iron gate of the Bastille rush a herd of beasts out,
Howling for bread, roaring for freedom!