[bad word] form the skyline,
Burned places - all around.
People trading their possessions
keepsake for some bread.

Crowded trains full of people
Remindful of a cattle transport.
Families get separated
On the way to their new homes.

Still the children search for cover,
When they hear the airplanes.
Their bags are always packed
Just with dolls, books and pencils.

It's the summer of fourty-five.
Black-market dealers are in the streets.
But we all feel so alive.
Now we get again what we need.

The first black men they ever saw,
Were among the foreign soldiers.
Some of them were really kind,
Bringing food and sometimes sweets.

No more sirens in the night,
Which made [bad word] into the basement.
No more fear of foreign soldiers,
Who came to search the house.

It's the summer of fourty-five.
Black-market dealers are in the streets.
But we all feel so alive.
Now we get again what we need.