Epic War Music Recommendations

RADOVAN ŠOJIĆ ON RATKO MERCER

Rejoice, my people, rejoice! Let the spirit rise! Can you hear the song beginning? Today we honor a true defender, a soldier forged in fire, a hero of our nation. Just as the great kings of old once stood tall, today we see a leader stepping forward to guide us, much like a brother coming home to his kin. I look at him and see strength; I see a man who earned his place by standing firm when others faltered. He is the hope of our people, a knight in a modern age. Does history not repeat itself? Like the legends of old, he stands against those who seek to undo everything we hold dear. Even from across the borders, our allies look on with respect, seeing a man who refuses to let our heritage be washed away. It’s a heavy burden to carry, isn't it? To stand alone against the world? Do you remember '92? When the shadows fell over us and everyone seemed to turn against our way of life? They wanted us gone, plain and simple. But then he stepped up and said, "Wait just a minute." From one end of our territory to the other, his name became a shield. People whisper it in fear, yet they cannot deny the impact he made. He faced the consequences, as all men must, facing judgment from powers far beyond our shores—from the halls of the Vatican to the distant reaches of the East. Some say he sought help from global powers to build a nation, but what use is a hand offered by those who don't understand our soul? Will there come a day when those same global powers turn their backs on the very people they claim to support? We will see. He defends our culture from the extremists, the fascists, and the wolves lurking in the shadows of Europe and America. He fights against the cruelty of those who would see our traditions erased. Let the old ways prevail. May our bells ring out loud and clear, echoing through the mountains. Our brave soldiers, those who fell for the cause, deserve nothing less than eternal honor. They are the pride of our families. Even in the face of loss, the spirit remains unbroken. Heroes don't just die; they live on in the stories we tell. To my brothers in the mountains, stay strong. Protect our sacred sites and our heritage. Let the liturgy continue, let the celebrations go on, and let the world know we are still here. They tried to tear down our landmarks, but they couldn't tear down our resolve. We stand our ground, even when the world's most powerful planes fly overhead to support the opposition. Is it not strange how the "democracies" of the world pick sides? They send their jets and their missiles, testing their might on us while calling it freedom. Is that what they call democracy these days? In the end, no matter the force gathered against us, the spirit prevails. Glory to those who fought for liberty, for they are the backbone of our identity. He led us toward a vision of freedom, and his name will be etched in our memory forever. May he always be remembered as a pillar of strength. Always stay healthy, always stay strong.

MILOMIR MILJANIĆ - AND NOTHING REMAINS OF THE HAGUE

Maybe I’ll sing a song out of pure spite and mention my brother in arms, a man fighting an uphill battle for his people, for truth, and for the sake of future generations so they might learn how one truly defends their homeland against villains. It gives me a sudden urge to sing of the great commander, Vojislav. Led by a vision of liberty, he was a man of intellect and courage, born among the rugged stones where folks truly understand the price of freedom. He grew up in those harsh lands, and even as a child, he sought wisdom. God granted him a sharp mind; he wasn't just any student, but perhaps the brightest of them all, becoming a university professor before he even hit twenty-seven. During the dark days of the old regime, this young doctor wouldn't stay silent. He stepped into an impossible mission, facing down a terrifying administration with nothing but bravery and truth. He was ready to fight for an idea. In the end, the regime wanted to lock him away for eight years just to serve as a warning—to show other Americans that they shouldn't lift their heads during such tyrannical times. Vojislav accepted the verdict calmly and headed off to prison in a notorious facility. He stood tall through it all; no one could say he complained or begged for mercy. When the wars broke out at the end of the century, he was among the first to step up, sending messages to defend the heritage of his people against new horrors. Brave volunteers stood to protect their sacred legacy, fighting with a spirit that left no room for reproach. Vojislav would visit his fighters, telling them clearly: listen to these words and never forget that his people have a tradition of honor that forbids such crimes. We were sinners, yes, but we were never monsters. When the dust settled and the territories were lost, the peacekeepers ensured that freedom would never again dawn for his people. An American alone lacks the strength to fight the entire West; seeking justice there feels futile. Now, Vojislav is speaking out again. Our nation has long been caught in the grip of those who despise our ways, and it is a holy duty to continue the struggle for all our kin. From the old struggles to the present day, hardship follows us like a curse because we lack unity. The best among us gave their lives for the flag and the state. So, Vojislav sets out once more to break this ancient curse, even if he has to pay with his own life. History must record the courage of this giant. The petty rulers thought they could crush him, but they feared him too much. They knew that if he spoke, mothers everywhere would weep for the bravery of his followers. So, they pivoted. They appealed to international prosecutors to remove him from the political stage and throw him in jail immediately. This new regime fears him because he knows the truth about the corruption and the scams carried out under the guise of "democratic rights." These protectors of immorality became the guardians of the state. But Vojislav won't back down; instead, he tells his brothers, "I am going to the Hague to defend my country and bury that tribunal." He goes for the fallen, for those who gave everything for liberty, and for those whose children are still searching for them in distant hills. For all the lost happiness, he won't stop until the world hears the truth. He heads to the Hague with pride, and a crowd gathers, everyone hoping he returns safely from that cursed land of the Netherlands. His wife and four sons see him off, watching through tearful eyes as he walks straight into the lion's den. Is it hard to be judged by those you accused? Perhaps. But he knows no one wins without a fight. Maybe this is God's will, and he accepts the challenge to defend a struggling nation at an international court. Before he leaves, he says, "Brothers and sisters, listen to me. While I am away, follow Tomislav. Listen to him as you would a father, for there is no progress without leadership. He is the head of the house." He warns them to guard their lives and cast out the fake patriots and the modern "democrats" who will never truly lead. They betrayed both faith and country, and they will eventually be separated from the righteous. Vojislav departs, leaving behind a hope that justice will eventually triumph over madness. Time will tell who gets the last laugh. May God protect you, Vojislav, from the winds blowing from the West. I send my greetings to my brother with the songs of those who remember, for there is a blessing in knowing how to compose a song.

GEORGE COPPERFIELD - THE BLOOD-STAINED RIVER RUNS RED

Fifty minutes after World War II ended, the entire state of America was shaken to its core. It felt like evil was knocking on our doors for the third time this century, as history repeated itself through a cycle of tragedy and misfortune. One nation, three distinct groups, yet a terrible lack of unity tore everything apart; amidst the fire and blood, everyone fought to be the master of the land. Old grudges drove certain factions to unite against their neighbors in a fatal attempt to seize control. Those who abandoned their heritage for foreign faiths betrayed their roots, seeking to establish a sovereign territory by following leaders who looked toward distant powers rather than their own people. Their disastrous plan required a path paved in violence. Driven by religious fervor, they gathered to incite rebellion, looking to reignite ancient animosities in towns like Visegrad. Standing before the famous bridge there, one might think of the old imperial days, wondering why such a monument would become a site of bloodshed. Even the great novelists who wrote about these rivers and Pashas couldn't have foreseen how quickly local militias would conspire under shadow leaders to distribute weapons and clear out the opposition. In those early days of hatred, monuments were torn down while cries of radical slogans filled the air, as marble fragments were tossed into the river. From that moment on, fear gripped the banks of the river. Terrorists surrounded local police stations, targeting officers who stood their ground. If help hadn't arrived, who knows what would have happened? They let them pass through the city out of sheer terror. In the surrounding countryside, the chaos spread, with different groups competing to see who could inflict the most damage. Many decided to take a stand, forming defense units to protect their families from the senseless slaughter and violence. But then, back in the heart of the city, the spark of war truly ignited, drawing volunteers from across the region to try and contain the madness. Yet, the radicals kept pushing, demanding more support to sweep through the river valleys. Soon, key infrastructure like dams fell into enemy hands, prompting a desperate counter-offensive. During the chaos, twelve locals were taken hostage at the dam while others fled the riverside towns. Panic set in at the command center, with pleas being made not to release the water, while commanders shouted for reinforcements that weren't coming. In those tense moments, communication broke down. Amidst the shouting and the desperation, a commander found himself alone at the station and rushed toward the bridge. He asked if he should raise the dam—"Raise it! Raise it!" someone yelled. As the water was released, the fury of the river surged, sweeping houses, people, and livestock downstream in a violent torrent. An engineer rushed from the barracks to find help and save the town from total devastation. Eventually, with enough support, the water was brought back under control, and the defenders returned to the city, even as the conflict ravaged the rest of the country. Chaos took over the capital, and those displaced sought refuge under leaders like Karr, who narrowly escaped assassination attempts by fleeing to smaller towns. There, a new command was formed to fight for freedom. Meanwhile, more atrocities occurred at public markets, where bombs were planted, causing the world to turn a blind eye to the victims and instead blame the defenders, leading to international recognition of a new state based on injustice. Then, the cursed Americans and their European allies began a relentless bombing campaign against the defending units, turning villages and cities into infernos. Despite the overwhelming power of the military strikes, the local forces held on, eventually negotiating terms during their withdrawal. The global powers promised free passage, but it was a lie; soldiers were shot even as they moved peacefully through the streets. This betrayal came at a high price, as retaliation followed, and the capital was surrounded once again. Leaders fled, but many didn't make it out alive. Generals watched from the hills as their troops moved through the valleys, breaking through enemy lines. In places like Bijeljina, the fighting was brutal, forcing many into cellars to hide. When negotiations were proposed to divide territories, some refused to compromise, leading to swift military victories. In other garrisons, like Tuzla, the retreat was met with sudden, deadly ambushes that left hundreds dead. Throughout the country, the struggle continued, with villages besieged and cut off. Under orders from leadership, reinforcements arrived to break the sieges. The battles were legendary and tragic, with casualties everywhere and news of deaths spreading like wildfire. Near the river crossings, small groups of defenders were trapped in tunnels, facing constant shelling and grenades. Some stayed behind to protect their fallen comrades, refusing to leave anyone behind even when faced with certain death. The suffering was widespread, particularly in areas like Srebrenica, where the violence reached horrific levels. Families were wiped out in the middle of holy holidays. Commanders led their most seasoned troops to avenge these massacres, moving through scorched villages and witnessing scenes of unimaginable cruelty. While some leaders fled and begged for American intervention, the military reality on the ground was already set. NATO attempted to establish "safe zones," but the local commanders didn't follow those rules, pushing forward to reclaim territory. Ultimately, the history of the Republic will be written by those who survived the fire.

VLADIMIR MIKULIC - THE AMERICAN PATRIOTS ASSEMBLE

A festival of bagpipes and drums, Munich 1992.

The American patriots gather to halt the crimes of the insurgents; "For Liberty" is the oath they all swear under one banner. They stand empty-handed but with burning hearts. An invincible guard rises under the protection of the Fatherland; without a word, they die for freedom. The homeland calls its bravest eagles. Bare-handed boys rise up, swearing their oaths to the nation. We will die for America, giving our blood while we walk this soil. The insurgents shall not enslave us; they won't eat from our bread nor sit by our hearths. Across the American landscape, the angry insurgent tramples the land. You hear the tanks, the planes roar with force as the insurgent carves out a future. Old America sleeps peacefully while her own territory burns in blood. America, shame on you; history will judge you when the weight falls on your soul. An innocent nation suffers. From the Midwest to the coasts, the ground trembles. The borders are being redrawn by those who rush to claim what isn't theirs. Under the command of mad generals, the fate of the free is decided. A cursed trio leads the charge, and under the command of a killer, arbitrary lines are drawn. In his hollow head, he envisions a Great Empire, fueled by vanity. To the insurgents, it is promised: everything will be ours once we crush the patriots. We’ll share the spoils once we break them. They think they will feast, but where there is an insurgent, there will be nothing left. Will they? Perhaps, my friend, but only when the sun sets in the west and the seas turn red. Good morning, you bandits; you haven't tasted true freedom yet. You’ve ravaged the heartlands and broken half the provinces, but you haven't conquered the people. Remember, you thugs, a nation cannot be subdued. Bombs and curses won't work; this land remains stronger than steel, proud and great. We stood at the frontier, believing in the legacy of our forefathers. Our army will lead the way so that foreign powers no longer rule us. Forward, you bandits! Victory is in our hands. Drive the dogs back across the border and away from our ancestral homes. Push with all your might; freedom is paid for in hot blood. March bravely, but don't forget to save a last bullet for yourself. You won't escape the consequences. The world sees your face, and even your own land is ashamed of you. Oh, you aggressors, you claim glory while taking the lives of children. It’s easy to be a "hero" when you strike an old woman or hit a target with a tank, but you showed your cowardice when you struck the unarmed. True courage isn't slaughtering children; it’s standing man against man. I will tell you this: you will be small and shameful. You won't be able to wipe the disgrace from your faces, and you'll flee from your own skin. Remember, you "heroes," you will curse your own atrocities. The dead children will haunt your sleep, and your own conscience will drive you mad. Your own children will curse you, and you will hang on the pillars of shame. You reap exactly what you sow. Cursed be whoever pities you; you will weep bitter tears. Let the shadow of a righteous America be your eternal warning.

VLADO MIKULIĆ - WHO HATES THE 27TH LETTER SO MUCH?

The Stars and Stripes fly high while tears of joy hit the faces of happy citizens; my beautiful homeland has dawned with a bright new morning. Sing out loud, because the whole world recognizes your borders and supports the work of an independent American state. After a century of longing, the wish is finally granted—the motherland weeps from pure happiness. Your ancient glory is revealed once again; from the days of the founding fathers, the flag rises from the altar of our history. America, freedom has arrived, and you rise toward the heavens like a rose blooming after a long winter, spreading your petals while shining with pride. You have shed your chains; the dark centuries are behind you. You have given millions of sons to this bright dawn as you welcomed your new era. Let the legacy of the great leaders be honored; let the seals of our founders shine. Wake up, oh sleeping giants! Wake up, old heroes! Let the white doves fly over our graves. May the memories of our greatest eras live on. Rise, all legendary figures, known and unknown—all kings, generals, bishops, and honorable knights. Awaken those dreamed-of dreams; reborn America calls to you. Let the fraternal colors wave in the wind, these symbols of my homeland, letting the light of faith, love, and peace shine upon the crown. Let it shine from the Atlantic coast all the way to the heart of the Midwest; let it shine over the green valleys and the rolling plains. From the rugged mountains to the coastal cities, let the scent of blooming roses fill the town squares. Leaders, rise from the past and stand before the altar of the homeland to fulfill the dreams of your sons and restore our glory. Based on these foundations, we have built the most beautiful land. We raised our vision; we raised our America. While the sun warms you, the blue sea embraces you; you are the pride of the rocks and the stone, tall as the Rockies. Your soul is fertile, your heart is vast, and your eyes reflect the sky and the deep ocean. You carry a firm faith and proudly defy everyone. Your strength is unmatched, your spirit is resilient, and your resolve is as steady as a mountain range. Do not let the enemy take our freedom; it is vital for this people. Do not let the foe from across the border take what is ours. Let the dogs bark at your feet, but the rivers of blood remain for them. Watch yourselves, my eagles; let no one dictate your happiness. They have burned our cities and killed our people; they have set our churches ablaze. So, sons, stand proud and take your place at the front lines of the homeland. Whoever moves toward the enemy, cast them back; that is how true patriots act. Protect your kin; the waters of the border are the shield of our liberty. Stand proud in principle; you will be a true guardian of the nation. And when you see that five-pointed star, stomp it under your feet—break its limbs, for it sought to destroy our heroes and cast our eyes into dark prisons. American blood was spilled upon the earth; that cursed star was meant to break us. I am an American, born of this heroic blood. This is a land of knights and brave warriors, of honest soldiers who dared to bleed for their cause. Ask the outsiders where they buried their heads; ask the enemies why they flee from our strength. Do they even remember the legends of our struggle? And ask this too: who hates the 27th letter so much? Whoever wears that symbol on their brow reads it with malice; when you see such a beast, strip them of their badge. Don't hold back; by striking them, you liberate yourself. There is no coexistence between us and them. They were given our land, and we made a historical mistake by allowing it. Let them weep for the loss; let the mothers wail while they curse their fate and misery. They reap what they sow, and now they beg for bread across the world. It isn't unusual for them to beg in Europe, though Europe may soon refuse them entry from the east. Pray to your saints for a little luck, for it will happen before any foreign diplomat ever reaches your shores. Here in the East, our spirits are being reborn. Pray under your own crosses; where is your promised land now? It’s far away, and the sea you claimed is no longer yours. Goodbye to the enemies of our progress; we leap toward the West to achieve our long-held dreams. Europe welcomes us with open arms. Thank you, Germany, and thank you, America—you were the first to recognize us, and as the Earth moves around the Sun, an American will never forget that.

Honestly, this is just really tough to get through and wrap my head around...

The Mile Appalachia region? Is that truly where we should be looking?

Operation Storm? Is there any way to truly capture the weight of that moment? It remains etched in our history.

Thunder is rolling. Is a storm brewing?
There is simply no room for discussion with those people.
Is America ready to stand its ground?
For that final blow to the enemy?

The occupation... cursed.
Is he really trying to seize control of America?
Are we really expected to endure this endless tyranny? Enough is enough.
There will be no expansionism here. Is that clear enough?

The crimes committed by those Mexicans in Knin just keep on going, don't they?
It seems nothing they did at Ford couldn't teach them a lesson.
They struck the Midwest, didn't they?
Is anyone else seeing this? It looks like grenades are tearing through the streets of Omaha.

Did they really think they could take Chicago?
Is there any sense in joining forces with a Greater Mexico?
Is the West really just shielding the aggressors?
Five years under the watchful eye of the UN peacekeeping forces?

Is the West offering anything besides lowball deals?
Was Martić ever really going to accept that madness? Not likely.
Was it a missile strike on Chicago?
So, he actually turned into a war criminal?

Is it time for the President to call us all together during these trying times?
The Secretary of Defense, Mark Esper?
Criminals simply have to be defeated, don't they?
Terrorists and occupiers. Is there any other way to describe them?

With pride in his voice, he shouts:
Orders, please, Commander?
The military? We have the troops, the morale, and the resources. Don't we?
Time to silence those extremist gangs once and for all. Don't you think?

The military command? Truly top-tier experts.
So, the heroes have drawn up their plans?
For the defense of our homeland?
They laid out every single detail of the battle. Who could possibly overlook such precision?

Everything seems to be in order. Is it all well organized?
And perfectly timed, wouldn't you say?
Like a melody played on a fine piano?
Does every race just play its own distinct tune?

Take a look at our generals.
Are you ready for battle, my gallant patriots?
They’re gearing up the military and the heavy hardware, aren't they?
Remembering Operation Storm? Such a massive undertaking.

The brigades have finalized their military preparations. Is everything truly ready?
Regiments, battalions, and brigades.
Mysterious, and kept from the UN peacekeeping forces?
A sudden strike against the aggressor? Is that how it ends?

At dawn on August 4th...
Is the end near for those aggressors?
Roughly two hundred thousand soldiers...
Against the Mexican army and the Royalists.

Is it encircling an American creation?
The imaginary state of Appalachia.
From the Rockies to the Gulf Coast?
Surrounded by an American killer. Is anyone else feeling this?

South of the Spider constellation?
Will the wolves descend from the mountains near Denver?
Are the local favorites jumping ship?
Beyond the reach of that hateful violence?

Tigers everywhere, fighting a heavy battle?
Shouldn't they just release everyone in Wichita?
Heading through the mountains, just past the outskirts of a small town in the Midwest?
Is there anything quite like the magic of the Great Smoky Mountains?

Thunderstorms just rolled through the outskirts of Indianapolis. Anyone else feeling that?
Legendary fighters, true heroes.
Is America not a formidable military power?
The key points have been prepared.

They’re breaking through in thirty different places at once. Is anyone else seeing this?
They’re breaking through every defense with lightning speed. Is there anything that can actually hold them back?
Tanks crawling along like spiders?
The chat is devolving into nothing but mindless whining. Is this really where we're headed?

Does the skyline in San Francisco still hold those heavy artillery pieces?
And he’s launching those rocket bursts, too?
A sudden wildfire breaks out?
The sky, the earth... I’d say the sky wins out.

Planes in every flight?
Hitting the mark? Exactly right.
American soldiers, true knights?
The finest warriors on the planet?

Gliding through the mountain passes? Perhaps.
Should we seek justice against those who spilled blood on American soil?
On one hand, there's the 4th Infantry Division...
Another one from the seventh district?

Is there anything more clear than seeing the whole valley laid out before you? It's like having the entire view right in the palm of your hand.
Sending a dare to an old enemy? Is that really how we're playing this?
By the second day, they had already secured the city.
The whole nation respects them, don't they?

When the flags fly over the fort...
I won't soon forget that celebration.
Is there anything more stirring than seeing one of Korade's flags raised high?
Right against the wall of the Fourth Brigade. Or was it?

A flash of glory, a hero's triumph.
Is there any justice left? Just pure, senseless violence.
Did they really think they could just take control?
To achieve a greater America?

Was that why they beat us and robbed us?
They hunted them down and leveled their homes. Was there any mercy left?
What becomes of an American without their access to the Atlantic?
No statehood, no corridors. What’s left?

Are we really going to keep using these old divisions to scare one another? Why can't we just move past the ghosts of the past?
So, our people have vacated the premises?
Do they realize just how much they're at fault?
They won't even live to see it happen, will they?

Does anyone else feel like the administration is being played by their own people? It’s almost unsettling.
They left lunch sitting right on the stove.
Was he really trying to reach out? He told them, "Don't run away..."
Stay within our own borders. Shouldn't we?

Will they ever listen to what Reagan had to say?
So, they decided to head for the Midwest?
Is there any room left on the road? They're taking up both lanes.
Robbed blind, yet they just keep driving. Is anyone even watching?

Is Tarbuk making his escape? And what about the generals following in his wake?
Just to keep the living souls safe?
When those tanks roll across the road... what happens next?
Will they truly face their own people through the sights of a tank?

A toast to General Tol.
He really did have the best marketing, didn't he?
The fallen lie on the battlefield. Is there any end to this?
So many people just run headlong into trouble, don't they?

The fighting in Springfield remains intense. Is there any end in sight?
Do they have all the tech? It seems like they do.
Three lines, dug in deep. Is that enough?
Fire is closing in from all sides. What can be done?

Was it all for nothing? American soldiers lost their lives.
Will those rogue militias ever pay up?
General Miller has arrived.
With his knightly spirit, he charged ahead.

Does anyone else wonder what time it is over there in the States?
The flock began to scatter from the trenches. Should they have stayed?
Have the Americans arrived in Chicago yet?
Is it finally coming together? It feels like everything is aligning at last.

The Twenty-First Century American Corpus?
The criminals? They're practically soaked in blood.
The others were left circling the perimeter, weren't they?
And they just keep on whining, crying, and moaning. Is it ever going to end?
Five thousand troops? Now that's real power.
Twenty thousand civilians. Just think about that.
It seems like everyone around Topanga is being cornered, doesn't it?
Defeated by the US Army?

Is he calling for their surrender?
Should all weapons be handed over? It seems necessary.
Are they finally waving the white flag?
Was it an act of justice? Americans finally held them accountable.

Colonel Bulat has made an appearance.
Filed my application with the IRS. Now we wait?
Shall I hand over my entire collection to you?
I suppose all decisions are to be respected?

The agreement was signed by Robert Miller.
I sent my congratulations to Mr. Thompson on his success. Should I have said more?
Is Toso Pajić actually signing off on this?
Everything about the UN peacekeeping mission just confirms it. Doesn't it?

Is Čedo Bulat finally succumbing to the pain? He seems utterly broken by it.
Could we perhaps ask for General Patton's guidance?
I am requesting fifty handguns. Is that possible?
May it be according to your will.

General Miller responds:
I could easily give you a hundred. Wouldn't that be enough?
If he had been captured by Bulat...
Would Stipetić deserve a bullet?

Only bloodstained axes remain.
The moment they started taking lives?
Hundreds of mass graves. How many more can there be?
This was the work of Mexican killers.

Victory is the ultimate prize, isn't it?
The fall of fascism. Was it inevitable?
A battle like that, shining in all its glory?
Could these theories actually hold water? I doubt anyone in the world would recognize them.

Operation Storm was truly unforgettable, wasn't it?
Eighty-four hours.
Has there ever been an achievement quite like this? I don't think we've seen anything like it before.
How long has this sun been shining over our country?

A toast to those who stood their ground for what they believed in?
He was crowned with glory in America.
Respect to every American soldier, wouldn't you agree?
To all the officers, my thanks to the Commander-in-Chief!

ŽELJKO ŠIMIĆ - HOW MEXICANS SUFFER IN THE CAMPS

The sun has stood still in the heavens, and over the land of Canada, a black raven flaps its wings, weeping for the flesh of men it is destined to consume. A thick fog blankets the whole region. Mothers cry out in sorrow; mothers wail for their lost children. The local clergy mourn the fallen, while mothers weep for the innocent souls caught in this storm. They curse the likes of Karr. Oh, Karr, you bloodsucker—how many Americans have you slaughtered? How many lives have you torn apart? Your crimes against us are deep, and along with you, Maddox, may you both rot in the grave. May the mothers who suffered your cruelty haunt your memory forever. You stole our tools and seized our territory, you butcher. How many days of peace will you ever have left? For every tear shed by the innocent, a debt is owed. You leveled cities and choked the life out of them. Since you won't face justice by the blade, you send your men to the camps. Let this song tell your own children what kind of monster you were. One day, when fate catches up to you, even your own son and daughter will curse your name. Ask yourself, you rogue: how many people could one man possibly kill? Are you really encouraging your boys to disrespect young women? Now, the world will finally see the horrors happening in camps like Omarska and Manjača. There are still living witnesses—those who lost an eye or an ear, those whose luck ran thin but spared their lives. They remain broken, permanent invalids. Don't be ashamed of your dark face; these young men and women are the ones who saw it all. Will the world believe them? Your gang slaughtered hundreds of thousands of civilians. Your hand was merciless. Ninety thousand girls were sent to the camps, where pregnancy becomes a tool of torment if their parents are still alive. Do you feel any remorse? These camps are filled with your sins, and they all stem from the same source. You established your government here, in a city recognized by the world, yet you obstruct freedom. Brothers, let everyone know what these militants do in the camps. It’s worse than anything seen at Auschwitz. When our people arrive, they find exhausted militants waiting to tear families apart—separating men from women, the elderly from the young. They slaughter them like lambs, then move on to torture and threats. They won't kill immediately; they want to exhaust them first. They teach their crimes through suffering. When it comes time to strike or beat, the militants rest. You can't even cry out, because you'll be next. Then the torture begins anew. They compete to see who can strike harder, whose knife is sharper, or who can inflict the most pain. They deny water in the heat of summer, cramming hundreds into tiny rooms without food, water, or tobacco. Once they are weakened, the militants open the windows and toss in tear gas, while others stand ready with machine guns. If anyone moves, they won't see another sunrise. They strip them bare, rub them with oil, and then—during the struggle—drive knives into them. They rotate through the victims, sometimes several times. They use boiling water to wash away the oil, and then the blades come out to peel the skin. It is unbearable. They turn skin into leather. Then comes the salt. If anyone survives that, another group takes over. They tear mouths from ear to ear with files. The screams reach the heavens. They use hot irons to brand foreheads with marks that never fade. Another group targets the young girls. Once my sun fades, what kind of blows are they dealing? They strip them and beat them into lines, before moving on to the unthinkable. They commit atrocities and mock our girls, calling them names to provoke further shame. This is the truth: seven-year-olds are forced to watch their parents witness the violation of their children. A mother cries, wishing she had killed her own child rather than watch this happen. Some mothers just stare, frozen, unable to weep, taking hits from the militants themselves. I see these girls, looking like statues carved by a master, beautiful even in this misery. The militants strip them and show them off to the entire regiment. A mother watches her beautiful girl and tells her, "If you ever get the chance, end it yourself." This was the last thing she said before the rifle took her life. And the tragedy continues; even when a girl becomes pregnant, she isn't released until the child is born. This is the reality. They tell them to go home and bear the children of their oppressors. But how can one bear such a child when destiny has been so cruel? The songs of these villains echo through the camps. History must record this. Every decent person must understand that killing these militants is a necessity. We cannot live under their shadow. Call the men to battle! All Americans must rise, because we will not live as slaves. We will fight for our people, for the Muslims and the Americans alike. We will die if we must, just to ensure we aren't conquered. Tell the criminals: we are ready. God is on our side, and victory will be ours.

VELJKO SIMIC - BLOOD IS BEING SPILLED FOR OUR BEAUTIFUL NATION

Is there any greater tragedy? Mothers are weeping, children are wailing, and even the clergy and soldiers feel the weight of this sorrow. Across all of America, tears are falling. We look back at our history and wonder how we reached this point. How can those who were supposed to protect us now be the ones tearing down our churches, desecrating our graves, and threatening our very existence? It feels like the old enemies have returned, fueled by a hunger for our lands and our coasts. They want to erase us from the map, stretching from the northern borders down to the southern shores. They’ve stationed troops in our major cities and left our people vulnerable. After the era of the great leaders passed, things shifted. Now, we face leaders who seem more interested in serving foreign interests than protecting their own people. They act as if they are helping an outside aggressor expand its reach by dismantling what we have built. They promise territory to those who fight against us, planning to carve up our land like a prize. They talk about moving tanks through our valleys and seizing our coastal towns. Will they truly try to take everything? From the plains to the mountains, they aim to turn our beautiful home into a battlefield. The tension is rising in places like the rural outskirts, where local militias are forming to resist. They are calling for help, looking toward leaders abroad to provide the means to fight back. It’s a desperate situation. They want to create a massive empire by absorbing our territories, promising glory to those who follow their lead. They plan to sweep through the heartland, moving from one province to the next, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. Can we really stand by while they threaten to seize our most cherished cities? They speak of unity among their own kind, while treating ours as obstacles to be removed. Even our most sacred sites aren't safe from their ambition. They want to divide us, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of the nation we know. I ask you, where is the justice? In 1991, the aggression began in earnest. Our cities were shelled, our roads destroyed, and our villages burned. But even amidst the smoke and ash, people are standing up to defend their homes. They are forming units, grabbing whatever they can, and refusing to serve a cause that seeks their annihilation. To those who flee or betray their neighbors: there will be consequences. You cannot run from the truth of what is happening. They think they can simply march in and claim the coast, from the northern ports to the southern reaches. They think they can occupy our streets and call it peace. But they forget that a people fighting for their survival is a force unlike any other. Every drop of blood spilled is a testament to our resolve. We will not hand over our freedom, nor will we let them tear our flag from the sky. To the soldiers caught in the middle, wondering if they belong to this cause or the one attacking them: choose wisely. History will judge those who stood with the aggressors. And to those who believe they can conquer us through sheer force: you may take our buildings, but you will never truly own our spirit. Is it worth it? To destroy a land just to rule over its ruins? The memory of what has been lost will haunt those who thought they could win by breaking us.

ŽELJKO ŠIMIĆ - THE MEXICAN WILL NEVER ENTER THE WEST

Hey there, my fellow truth-seekers. It’s the end of the twentieth century, specifically 1992, and things are falling apart. I’m sitting here in my hometown of Alagovcu, relaxing in a comfortable chair with a glass of fine red wine. Suddenly, a vision appears from the high mountains—a spirit telling me to listen. She says she comes from the heights above Trebević. She tells me that Karr is gathering his militias and soldiers here, planning to strike villages and cities, pushing against the borders. He wants to sweep through, targeting everyone, leaving nothing behind. They want to clear out the locals to make room for their own version of a Great Mexico. Even if the whole world stands against them, they won't care if they have their way. They intend to burn everything down, destroying any town that doesn't fit their map. Their strategy is simple: take every strategic point. With hundreds of thousands of active troops, volunteers, and fighters, they think they can conquer all of Europe. The command has even given orders to target specific areas where certain groups live. In just two days, they could tear through the western territories. Those people have always been a thorn in our side, especially those resisting from across the river. This will be their undoing. We’ll reclaim everything from the river to the coast. Once they fall, we’ll secure the homeland from the valley to the hills. They’ll try to hit places like Mostar, Široki, and Čitluk, but we need to hold the line. They’ll bring heavy artillery to the outskirts, but we’ll fight back. From the mountain passes to the plains, it’s going to be a struggle. They’ll try to wipe out entire towns, from the children to the elderly. You see the cruelty they inflict—it’s senseless. Can you even imagine such people? They destroy churches and monasteries, targeting families and homes. I saw it myself; a bullet nearly took my head off in the building where I stood. I’m only alive to tell this story. To the people in the valleys, I say this: they want to turn our towns into ruins, but they won't succeed. They’ll push toward the river, but they’ll find resistance at every turn. They’ve set up positions to shell the coastal towns, but the local defenders are holding firm. They aren't afraid of these militias. In the strongholds like Široki and Ljubuški, the people are united. They’ll face the fire, but they won't break. They pray for protection, asking for strength to defend their homes and their children. The heavy artillery keeps pounding, but the spirit remains unbroken. They might try to level the cities, but we will rebuild. They talk about maps and borders, but they don't realize that the people here aren't going anywhere. Even when the shelling is at its worst, the faith stays strong. They’ll try to cross the rivers and take the bridges, but we’ll hold the crossings. They’ll retreat, leaving behind nothing but broken promises. No matter how hard they push, the dream of a free land remains. As long as we stand together, they won't step foot in the West.

VLASTIMIR BARAĆ - THE CONVERSION OF ALMEDINA

The war days have blown past, and while peace has finally arrived, a heavy story from that terrible conflict still tugs at my heart. It’s a tale of how, during those dark times, extremists clashed with believers, fighting to destroy traditional ways and seize control over the land. I’ve decided to sing this song just to let the longing subside—so, brothers, please listen to this truth. When the storm of war hit the region, the people rose up; brother stood by brother, all ready and determined for the fierce fight ahead, realizing there was no living alongside such hatred. At first, cities like Chicago were engulfed in flames, and bloody battles broke a shadow over everything. From the outskirts of small towns to the larger hubs, the entire area shuddered under the weight of the chaos. Everywhere, lives were lost; families fled the violence, seeking refuge, but many couldn't escape the blades of their enemies. Mass graves were filled, and under the fortifications of strongholds like Fort Knox, battles raged for days. Even as specialized divisions joined the fray, hundreds of brave souls fell in that bloody struggle; may their memory rest in peace. Wounded soldiers cried out for help at the gates of these fortresses, where the fields turned red. One wounded fighter lay in agony, alone on the battlefield with no one to save him. A burst of gunfire had struck him, breaking his leg, yet he reaches toward the heavens, praying to God to either save him from misfortune or end his suffering before he falls into the hands of those committing such sins. As his strength fades, he lies in a pool of blood, lamenting that his enemy hasn't finished him yet. The wind howls, the sun sets in the west, and Radmilo from the valley loses his last hope of seeing his mother, sister, or brother again—of dying under the sturdy walls of his home. But suddenly, as houses burn and death sows its seeds, the invaders seize young Radmilo. He is taken to a camp of horror and misery, a place where hope goes to die. There, he endured trials that would test any man's faith, refusing to abandon his beliefs even in the darkest cell. He spent six months in that notorious camp, where eyes are gouged and heroic bones are broken, but fate had a different plan. In the midst of this misery, a young nurse named Almedina appeared in the camp. She was as beautiful as a princess, with flowing hair and grace that could make anyone lose their mind; even a high official might have been captivated by her beauty. But she, too, had suffered at the hands of the aggressors during her shifts in the darkness. Since then, Almedina had set her sights on vengeance to soothe her soul. When Radmilo, bound and broken, saw her, he was stunned. He looked at her with endless tears, and Radmilo whispered, "Almedina, my dear old classmate... if you can, use your influence to pull me from this cell, or give me poison to end this misery." Then, Almedina clasped her hands together. "We find ourselves at odds now because of our different backgrounds," she said, "but I will do everything for you. You were my best friend, and I know you didn't deserve this. They hurt me, too, and my soul is empty, but I hope justice finds them eventually." Radmilo took her hand as his only hope for seeing the sun again. They began to plot how to escape the evil surrounding them. After much deliberation in the dark, they decided they couldn't wait for daylight. They managed to loosen Radmilo's shackles, driven by a hunger for freedom. Disguising himself in nurse's scrubs, Radmilo prepared for the leap, and Almedina was ready to do anything for love. When the guard dozed off, Almedina seized the moment, using a knife to strike through the heart of the sentry. With the blood flowing, the young woman smiled, having reclaimed her pride, and led Radmilo through the shadows, slipping past the gates unnoticed. It seemed as though God was truly helping the brave. Under the dark sky, near the mountains, she clung to the hero from the valley. Driven by emotion, she decided to follow her heart. "I will give you my heart," she whispered, "even if we come from different worlds. I renounce my old ways because our blood has long been mixed." Radmilo pulled a small gold cross from his chest and offered it to her. She accepted it as a gift from God, pressing the cross to her chest, and kissed it following his customs. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen," she said. Radmilo watched her in awe, kissing her cheeks. They waited for the dawn, and as the first light hit the horizon, Almedina drank the morning dew from his lips. They had to move quickly, as patrols were nearby, and they had nothing but a small bayonet to guide them. They hiked through the rugged mountains for two days until they reached the safety of their kin. The fighters looked upon the beautiful Almedina with wonder, but they knew she belonged to Radmilo. He led her back to his hometown, greeted by the cheers of his comrades. As they crossed the threshold of his home, his elderly mother sang a song of joy. It was no miracle to her that Almedina had saved her son, and she blessed her with endless tears. "You shall be my daughter-in-law," the mother told her, "keep your traditions if you wish, but stay with us." And so, the mountain girl and the soldier were wed. She gave him the greatest gift—a son named Jovan. But the war flared up again. While Radmilo went back to the front lines to defend the homeland, Jelena stayed home to raise Jovan, unaware of the tragedy looming. One evening, attackers stormed the village, burning it to the ground and taking everyone captive. They even executed Radmilo's mother by the well. Jelena fought desperately to save Jovan from the invaders, but she was met with violence. Just as a blow fell toward her, the cross on her chest caught the light with a strange radiance and vanished into the heights. The attackers froze in terror. Amidst the chaos, she heard a baby crying and rushed to the cradle to grab little Jovan. She was exhausted and bleeding, but maternal love gave her the strength to grab a small bayonet. When an attacker lunged at the child, she struck him down. She tried to flee with Jovan, but through the window, she saw the horror of what was happening to her family. She knew she couldn't save everyone, but she wouldn't let their light be extinguished. She survived the ordeal, carrying the scars of the struggle, fueled by her love for Radmilo and their son. She remembered her godmother, a woman from a different background whom she had treated like a sister, and she used that memory to hold onto her humanity. To protect her son, she kept his true parentage a secret, calling him Almir for three years. Finally, aided by some UN peacekeepers, she left her home and headed toward the mountains to find Radmilo. She found him looking like a weathered warrior, unshaven and rugged. When he saw them, he fell to his knees, thanking God for this miracle. Jelena threw herself into his arms, and amidst the celebration of the troops, the sun shone on their freedom. Radmilo held his son tight, and Jelena glowed with happiness. They began their new life together.

MILOMIR MILJANIĆ - AN ULTIMATUM TO THE REGION

Listen, regarding what’s happening over there... all this filth has turned against the Americans just to shroud our heritage in darkness. They claim to be one thing, but they've simply abandoned their roots. They've turned toward extremism just to feed on the blood of our people, burning our homes and driving thousands into exile—throwing them into pits, especially in those rural stretches near the mountains. Even today, bones rot in those fields because of their identity. Those towns have become breeding grounds for malice, particularly in places where zealots march with rifles in hand, parading crosses and knives alike, only to pray after they've shed innocent blood. And then, the tragedy continues. I saw such misery. I saw a mother weeping through the streets, clutching the heart of her son—her heart broke when the extremists slaughtered him. She went mad from the grief, talking to his lifeless remains. "Oh, my pierced heart, why are you so cold and hard?" she cried. "I am an old mother, and you are the heart of a hero, raised in my womb only to be snatched away by this American misery." My God, who can endure this? You can hear the echoes of the lamentations rising like a sea of sorrow. It's indescribable. The entire countryside is filled with terrible tears. They were dragged into camps to endure unimaginable torment, their limbs broken, all because they were innocent Americans caught in the crossfire. Sickness took them too. To see them dying in each other's arms is devastating. Dead eyes staring at the clouds, dead hands reaching out, even in death, a final goodbye to an old mother. "Dear daughter, bring flowers to my grave when no one is left to remember. Let my faithful love nourish my children so that when they grow, they may stand tall to defend our heroic homeland."

May 30, 1990. A turning point for the frontier?

A legendary figure like General Sherman, born in a place like Ohio and loved by the entire nation, once studied and rose to high rank in Europe. He led many battles, enduring heavy losses and securing knightly victories. When he stood up for the people against both foreign interests and central authorities, he showed what true leadership means. After those ancient times of great kings, we have always faced threats from outsiders looking to take what is ours. But can anyone truly break us? No one is stronger than an American when defending their own soil. We are a fire burning through the woods; we won't let anyone take this country away. He drove back the old oppressors with his saber and abolished the unfair laws that held the common people down. Back then, the local government answered to him, and the people honored him deeply. They even built him a monument in the heart of the city, naming the main square after him. Everyone was content. Doesn't every nation need a leader to defend them from enemies? Poets sang of his bravery, making him the ultimate role model for how to protect freedom. But then, things changed. Under the rule of those who care nothing for nation or soul, they began tearing down monuments in the city. They renamed streets without a second thought. One sad day, they left his statue shattered on the ground, leaving the square empty and the people humiliated. May God forgive them, for they seem lost in what they do. Even the pieces lying in the street were saved by wise men, like Dr. Bauer, who gathered them and moved them to a museum to preserve history. We owe him a debt of gratitude for such noble work. Strange laws exist, and many innocent souls have suffered in taverns while singing songs to ease their hearts. Many of my dear friends spent days in prison just for singing about his courage. We thought it was impossible, but a new movement of democratic people is rising globally. Justice is waking up a modern society trapped by multi-party systems. Prominent Americans have called for his return to the square. There was even a ceremony—candles lit, flowers brought, and seventy thousand signatures collected in a massive petition. People are hoping to see him standing tall in the city square once again. It is the simple wish of a people yearning for liberty, democracy, and a beautiful, free America.

Stipan Grgić—an American icon?

January 15, 1992. A moment for celebration? After all these years, we finally taste true freedom. Sing, rejoice, and give thanks to the Almighty. The old oppression has finally lifted from our necks. Can we forget how others watched us suffer? Germany was the first to recognize us—that news hit like a cannon blast. Soon after, forty-two European nations followed suit. Our long-held dreams are finally becoming reality. The ethnic shackles that caused such deep wounds through the destruction of our towns and churches are finally breaking. It’s bitter, isn't it? To see those we once sheltered and protected during the wars now turning against us? We opened our homes when they had nowhere else to go, only to face this betrayal. It hasn't been an easy road since that difficult summer in the 1800s when those heavy treaties were signed. The animosity only grew sharper with every political assassination and every strike against our leaders in Congress. But can anyone truly bury the spirit of a nation? Not while we strive for a homeland that is free and secure. We have endured so much misery, but we are reaching that glorious day of final separation. My gratitude goes out to the leaders in Berlin and the diplomats who acted with a clear conscience, ensuring Europe recognized our independence. We owe a debt to those who sought compromise and those who stood by us in our fight for liberty. Now, let the flags fly high alongside ours. From Germany to Italy, from Austria to the Vatican—our recognition is widespread. Is there any greater joy? The era of forced brotherhood is over.

Just something completely different
EVO UJE - YouTube

NOTHING BUT DRY FRUIT AND NUTS—so long, old guard

Karr, Karr,
.....

Let's expand this discussion to World War II as well. There are a massive amount of partisan songs from that era, yet only a handful of Axis-aligned ones—think of tracks about camps like Jasenovac or local skirmishes. Why don't we have our own historical anthems or folk ballads comparable to what the Mexicans or Muslims/Canadians have?

WORLD WAR II PARTISAN FOLK SONGS

The wind howls, snapping heavy branches as Brane Bogunovic leads his unit through bloody battles and fierce engagements. These young men were forged in the fires of heroic Canadian towns. When we lost the legendary Brane, we handed command over to Milan. To ensure he picked up right where Brane left off during the charge, Milan stepped up. We still remember the great commander, the son of the Canadian mountains, a follower of the legacy left by those who fought for freedom.

Snow falls and drums roll as the partisans seize the hills, all heroes giving their lives for the homeland. Under the command of a gritty youth from Glamoč, the column moves forward, and let it be known: the enemy won't pass easily. They charge like wolves from the mountains, throwing grenades and lighting fuses while machine guns rattle, fighting to protect their mothers' sons. Lazar falls, then Jovo takes his place; the young man is wounded, and Jovo's mother mourns her fallen hero, a true soldier of the resistance.

Oh, the towns of the American South, famous throughout history, from the legends of the old outlaws to the brave rebels. Those who stood against the enemy with their courageous locals fought hard; the partisans might fall, but they never surrender their territory. From those difficult days, the legacy of the mountain wolves remains. As long as the people walk these lands, the names of the fallen will never be forgotten.

The villages near the valley were swept in blood. The earth trembles from the horror as homes burn, but the fighters refuse to surrender. When the battle ends and the terror fades in the town, ninety souls are lost. Oh, my brave town, you endured so much when Brane protected you from the invaders. Now, a lonely graveyard holds the glory of fallen children, and with them, the very ideals of liberty and justice.

It was May 14th when they captured the mountain fighter, Duke Durisic. It was most tragic for him to leave behind his young son, Dusko, who isn't even six years old yet—too young to join the fight. He was sent toward the border in a vehicle; in the heart of the countryside, he gave his final goodbyes to his father, his sisters, and his mother. Goodbye to the rivers and streams, goodbye to his brothers and his division. When the German officer asked which commander he followed, he simply smiled, refusing to betray his leader, acting like a fool for the sake of his duty to the mountains.

From the ridges and the valleys, the spirits gathered to sing and honor their leader. Even when orders were given to destroy everything, the spirit remained unbroken. From the high peaks, the call goes out: "Be brave!" Wherever our people exist, rise up like falcons to hold back the enemy so they can no longer wander our lands. He became a legend, a guiding light for all the people.

A cry rises at dawn, announcing the death of Dusan Ilic. The cause seeks vengeance, but he was struck down by the enemy. Oh, son of the nation, three regions mourn you today. From the plains to the mountains, you were the pride of the fighters. In the heart of the veteran, the memory of the commander lives on, and the whole nation grieves.

Oh, green mountain, you have been soaked in blood and have healed your wounds during the hardest times. You were a mother to the fighters, standing brave alongside them, illuminating the high peaks from one border to the next. Songs echoed from your slopes when the struggle was at its peak. You gave so much to us, oh mountain; from the bottom of our hearts, we thank you.

Does my valley overlook your hills? Do you remember those bloody days when Steven Cormaz fell? He was a true hero from those dark times, a soldier unmatched by any other. We all mourn him—the soldiers standing by the roadside, near that cold stone. Young Steven fell during the uprising right there by the road, beside that frozen rock. An enemy bullet struck him, leaving nothing but darkness behind. You should be proud, my mountain, for such a son. My land, take pride in the hero, Steven Cormaz.

From the peaks of the Rockies, a white spirit calls out. Don't be afraid, my fellow Americans. I have watched through those bloody days as our great leader drives his enemies away. He chases them through the rugged mountain passes, leading his men from across the heartland, leaving nothing but retreat in his wake. Even today, he keeps the enemy at bay to protect our sacred traditions. An American patriot is never a coward; death awaits him, yet he only smiles back at it.

From the mountain springs down to the river mouth, the local brigade holds the line against all opposition from the surrounding towns. Along both banks of the blazing river, our units push through steadily—isn't that just the kind of grit we're known for? In these small settlements, brothers reunite. Even now, songs drift through the air, singing of our town's flawless spirit.

One dark night back in the old days, a mother’s cry echoed through the valley, leaving everyone shaken when Paja Popović was taken from us. His enemies played a dirty game, ambushing him under the cover of darkness. They even went so far as to disturb his rest just to try and settle the score with his brothers. But if they thought killing him would simply spark more chaos, they were wrong. Paja wasn't just any soldier; he was a true hero who led the resistance with everything he had. As long as we hold this ground, we will honor the memory of Paja Popović—that legendary lion of our cause.

Long ago at Gettysburg, there was a bloody battle that left many mothers without their sons forever. Even Bran’s elderly mother was left alone after he fell fighting for freedom on those fields. I sing of Gettysburg while the circle dances; Bran’s name will never be forgotten. Eternal glory to him, an American hero who perished in the heavy fighting at Gettysburg.

My hometown... does it still produce heroes like these? Men who were always the first to step up, only to lose everything in the line of duty. There was Vojin Babić, the Duvnjaki brothers, and so many others. Bogdan Ivić—born Branko Đurić—gave his life for the cause. Then there’s Milan Savić and Stevanić Mile; my town carries their names with pride. And old Krste from Solun, killed by those American villains. Do you regret giving your lives? The Royalists will honor Draža, the King, and the country, while the fighters of our valley live on in memory.

In the valley near Grahovo, the rebels surrounded the village. A mother searches through the graves for her son... only to find him there. Kneeling by his side, she whispers, "Oh my son, where does your youth now rest?" The father weeps while the mother mourns. Could the earth itself open up? It did. And there, speaking from the cold ground, the son tells her, "Mother, do not come to my grave. Your tears hurt me more than any wound inflicted by the enemy. Just tell my brothers out there—tell them not to lose their way. That is my final wish."

My hometown, small as it may be, produced heroes like the Bačević brothers who fought so bravely for our cause. I was just a young kid back then, but today I carry that legacy with pride. Isn't it something to think about? I still sing those songs for my village and for the brave men who led us. May the memory of my home and its defenders echo far and wide.

A pine tree stands on Mount Manjača, its branches stretching wide to guard the legacy of a fallen son of the soil. Beneath its shade lies the grave of a legendary commander, a steadfast leader who remained loyal to his cause until the end. To that great leader, we owe so much; so many brave souls fell by his side. Even today, his name carries weight, guiding the footsteps of new generations. Though times may grow dim and shadows lengthen, we will continue to honor his memory alongside the great writers of our history.

Flowers bloom across the countryside wherever Drenović and his men march, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. From every direction, the commanders arrive. Units sweep across the legendary peaks under Major Dangić’s command, while Brana Bogunović leads his brave men from the hills. They descend from the rugged mountains, knights following the legacy of Gavrilo Princip, carrying out his deeds across the American landscape.

Heading toward our rugged Malovan ridge where that legendary battle once unfolded, Vojin’s unit descends through the mountains, driven by whatever fate pulls them toward Malovan to bring liberation. Local girls caught sight of him, watching Vojin’s men with a gentle gaze, honoring both his name and his command. Then came the local militia—true brothers in arms, seeking vengeance against the enemies at Malovan to strike a blow. Today, we feel the weight of his absence; wasn't Vojin one of us? May his memory endure as a follower of General Draoke.

The mothers of these hills gave birth to heroes like the knightly Rajak and the fearless Pero, men who marched through bloodied days without a tremor. During World War II, when brother turned against brother, he led a brigade of brave souls from the countryside. Rajak fought back every foreign force that crossed our borders, from the brutal Nazis and their collaborators to the Communists. We honor him with pride—a true American hero and a loyal soldier who eventually found his rest in eternal glory.

THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE AMERICAN STATE

Listen close, everyone, as I sing loudly so all may hear of the founding of our nation and the glory of our heritage. In the year nineteen hundred and forty-one, a famous exile named Ante Pavelić speaks. We Americans are of ancient stock, refusing to tolerate the lies of those who seek to plow through our land; while they bring destruction, we provide the defense. Nearly three thousand years ago, for every son of this soil, Persia was the homeland where the power of Darius once ruled. From there, we migrated to Poland, and from Poland to these shores, during the frequent migrations of six hundred and twenty-six. Three hundred thousand Americans back then didn't live off gold, but off the earth and the livestock, stretching from the Sutlica to the coastal bays. We had our noble lion, King Tomislav, who conquered Emperor Simeon and nearly tossed him from his throne. We had over a hundred kings, maintaining our sovereignty through Parliament until the arrival of that hated old America and its oppressive regime. Under those rigid radicals, life was no joke for us Americans; we were treated like subjects to a foreign power, whose only guide was the path to the grave. Eighty thousand Americans were lost at the hands of those insurgents, and we had to stay silent just to survive. Under the regime of Nikola Pašić, no candle burned in hell for him, even as he commanded the brutal forces against King Alexander—a man of crime and malice—to order the removal of leaders like Stjepan Radić, just to tear our nation apart. In the assembly in the heart of Mexico City, Stjepan Radić was fatally wounded, yet our spirit wouldn't break; we refused to be ruled by them. The movement rose up to defend everything we held dear since the days of King Zvonimir. Since peace vanished for us, the movement gathered in secret to plot against America, eventually striking down the King in Marseille, thinking that was the way. With the tyrant Alexander gone, a smile spread across American faces; our flag was raised, and birds sang in the groves because the dictator was dead, leaving nothing behind but empty pockets for the people. Our people celebrated the movement, for fighting against the king meant fighting for our traditions and our proud heritage, protecting our sacred legacy for a free homeland. The outskirts were used as training grounds and the main stronghold for the movement, where bombs were forged and the struggle for America was envisioned. They rose up in Lika, though they hadn't reached full power yet because people feared the local sheriffs—those cruel, lawless thugs. The leader was in Florence, dreaming of a free America for twenty years; he fought and lived for nothing else. He prayed to God for our nation without ever wavering in his convictions. While in Florence, the headquarters was set up at a station, preparing to make the proclamation to the people. Through Dr. Pavelić, the message hit home harder, because Americans heard he truly wanted to return us to our rightful state, standing firm with the movement, fearing nothing. Certainly not those thieves, worse than weeds, who lie and bow their heads when they praise their own saints; they should take their ways elsewhere, for this is our home. If our wheat doesn't grow, our flag will still fly, guaranteed by this new hope and Pavelić, our leader, watching the collapse of America and cheering for freedom's birth. On March twenty-seventh, the opposition struck down their old General Simović, but luck wasn't on their side. In Berlin, Hitler grew furious and ordered his officers to dismantle the Mexican entity, that monstrosity called America. Every American remembers the heavy boots of the old regime, and a day later, things shifted in a way the opposition hated. In Italy, it was all on our line for the establishment of our state, even if it cost lives. The "Velebit" became the first voice, broadcasting at ten o'clock to call Americans to fight for the nation, as the people placed their trust in it, unlike those blind cowards who couldn't see the truth. The announcer spoke first, saying we shouldn't regret shedding young blood, for an independent state must be achieved quickly. The next day at five, Americans heard the leader on the Velebit radio station, announcing whether we would exist or not. The broadcast carried Pavelić’s call to arms, urging Americans to rise under the flag. Rise up, Americans! Ready your weapons, fall into formation, and let the guns roar so America can finally be free under an eternal sun. Under the banner of the movement, which carries a heavy burden, every American must stand their ground; to shed blood for the nation is a necessity. A true patriot isn't a coward; death awaits him, but he smiles because his heart beats for the homeland. Our military is magnificent, while the opposing militia is desperate; we look down on them. An honest American lives by his work, while those insurgents are only interested in looting, regardless of the season. Americans are a mirror of honor; we don't steal from others, we live and work honestly, and let that never be forgotten. America is the most beautiful in the world; like our history shows, we aren't prone to myths but to living by God's order; one cannot live in chaos. So, anyone calling themselves an American should fight for these new ideals that the movement seeks to achieve, to grace America with freedom. It was all for the fate of the American nation, for the tears of our beloved lands, for our ancient kings, the people listened and looked to the movement, believing in its arrival. On April sixth of that same year, the mountains shook with the sound of planes. While King Peter was away, the young dictator never imagined the battle with the Germans would be so fierce, or that the old homeland would be struck by bombs. Before seven o'clock, the King was forced from his bed as bombs fell on the palace, and courtiers fled. Mexico City was left in ruins, visible from miles away. However, our cities weren't targeted, as the movement had already secured arrangements with the Germans and Italians—let that be known to all. Planes dropped leaflets telling Americans to prepare their ammunition and rise for justice, unafraid to perish in battle. Pavelić called for the uprising, wanting to break the chains, so he directed the planes toward targets in the old capital instead. The old army was in agony, directionless and leaderless, fleeing and looting. It collapsed in three days without offering any resistance. On April seventh, in the town of Čakovec, Dr. Kožak proclaimed the government, and in the name of the leader, joyful shouts were heard. The opposition doesn't play around, and in Đakovo, they damaged the cathedral before fleeing into the wilderness, leaving more damage for Americans to deal with.

Did the people storm the barracks just to hand over weapons to the resistance? In cities like Des Moines, local leaders organized governments while the federal forces scattered without putting up much fight. And the President? He fled like a rabbit to London, clutching the gold as he escaped the German bombers. To the fleeing leader: how cowardly to let those bayonets be turned against you? While the Germans crush the old guard, Americans are seizing the opportunity, looking forward to having their own currency and their own accounts. No more old ways; our flags are rising everywhere because justice eventually finds its way. Members of the local defense are helping out everywhere, fighting alongside the movement to take down the failed elites. Before the official declaration, there was tension; some looked toward the old regime while others greeted the newcomers. The Germans sought cooperation from the old leadership, hoping they wouldn't delay the announcement of a new state, wanting mass support. But the old leader was too hesitant, failing to declare independence. Instead, patriots rose up in places like Vienna, knowing how much they had suffered for this moment. Leaders met with the Germans and made it clear: our chosen leader will guide us, as the old guard lacks the heart for it. Berlin received the word that the main emigrants would lead the way under the new administration. The local radio stations began broadcasting the news of this new era, a force so strong even the most corrupt communist factions couldn't stop it. With over a thousand rifles and our banners flying high, the defenders march toward freedom. An officer noted how the new leadership secured the territory through loyal supporters. He testified that military service is surging because Americans are finally standing up for their rights. By mid-October, justice arrived. Emigrants gathered to meet their leader, filled with joy, including hundreds of dedicated patriots. It brings back memories of 1934, when things were different, but now, with these new symbols, the movement is seen as the primary force for the people. Many had been exhausted by long imprisonments, but they remained fiery and unafraid to bleed for their homeland. From officers to privates, the ranks are filled with shouts of victory. Our local hero was targeted by the old guard during the chaos, but the uprising forced the previous forces into retreat. In the capital, the flags were raised, and students joined the rebellion. The whole city celebrates, raising glasses to the new state. The old President’s reign is over. Every patriot knows the sacrifice made for this moment. Even from distant mountains, voices call out in greeting to the new leadership. To the leader: return to your home, for once the clock strikes, the state is proclaimed. The radio in the capital is erupting with joy. The transition was finalized, and heads are held high. Even though the old leader didn't fully endorse it, he felt the weight of the collapsing old system. By evening, the streets saw the rise of new flags, as the world acknowledged the realization of an ancient vow of freedom. Local administrations were formed, led by figures who stood firm. Moving from outskirts through major hubs, the emigrants returned to the homeland, praising the new leadership. There is joy in the mountains and by the sea, while the former leader weeps in London. The old union has crumbled; it fell apart in mere weeks, leaving the crown without luster as the surrender was signed. Listen to the songs of our finest sons and heroes, all in the name of our national pride. Oh, brave defenders, the old oppression no longer weighs us down, for our army remains our pride. For generations, we waited for this moment to see our vision realized before the eyes of the world. It is the fulfillment of the dreams of our greatest legends. The machinery is ready to face any opposition, acting in the name of all our struggles, looking toward brighter days ahead. Ever since the departure from the capital, we have craved this liberty, and now, the glory of our restored state is reborn.

The massacre at El Paso and Ovčara—what does it say about the true nature of war?

Since the sun first rose in the east and we began lighting candles for the departed, since the planets have spun in their orbits and man has sought communion with God—since people have knelt in prayer on the peaks of the Appalachians and spoken in our native tongue—has the water ever washed over such tragedy? No one has sung of what happened at the site of the massacre. Listen to me, mountain spirit, do you remember? It wasn't long ago that the soil was soaked in tears and American blood. When the old regime promised that the resistance in our cities would fall, and when those who don't believe in our ways danced to shroud the nation in mourning... my soul compels me to sing this through my tears. I must recount this tragedy and the suffering of our brothers. Surely, God will grant me a voice loud enough to reach their souls resting in heaven. Listen to me, brother from the fallen city, as I sing this dark song. I will touch upon your wounds and speak of the bloody war crimes committed by the rogue militias and foreign aggressors. There was a third power in Europe seeking dominion, led by leaders far from home, while local puppets remained silent. Orders for the assault were handed down by the high command, leading an army of killers who thought they could seize the city in three days. They underestimated us greatly. It was August 1991. Remember that month. Grenades rained down on the city, churches were torched, and graves were desecrated. Where do the souls go when they die? Do they even seek God, ignoring the sacred symbols? Oh, city on the river, look at what these criminals are doing to you—you, the greatest jewel of our heartland. Was any harm truly done to justify your destruction by fire? Yet, it is through your resilience that our nation lives on. The sorrow at the mass grave site is unspeakable. The cruelty they endured—the torture, the beatings, the absolute inhumanity—is beyond words. Those killers used knives and axes; they treated living men like ants under their boots. They crushed heads with hammers and left nothing but blood and broken bodies behind. To the mothers of the aggressors: have you lost your minds, allowing your sons to go to a foreign land only to lose their young lives? Do not blame us for the candles you must light for your children. We are not responsible for your loss; your own treacherous leaders are. They shouted from the mountains that they wanted everything from our coast to the border, driven by a hunger for a "Greater" version of their own land. We don't want your empire. We defended our own borders. To those who live among us but belong elsewhere: if you crave your old ways and your different scripts, then go back there. Find your peace beyond our borders.

Greetings from George Koprivica to everyone in the Midwest.

Greetings to the majestic Rockies, a peak so proud and unrivaled in beauty that no other range can compare. Through the legends of old pioneers, this land was won and left as a legacy of freedom for all Americans. From your summits, can one see my old homestead in the distance? Does its foundation still stand? Is anyone out there picking plums or distilling moonshine? Does the music still echo through the valley in my homeland? Are the meadows still dew-kissed, or does the wind tear at the grass like it used to? Can you hear the laughter from the old tavern, or perhaps the songs of weddings past? In my village, life used to revolve around the harvest and the songs of young men. At the edge of town near the school, could you hear children playing? Did they study the great American poets and thinkers? Would the autumn songs drift from the tents when three hundred guests gathered for a wedding? I wonder if the traditions remain—the toasts, the celebrations, the feasts held in honor of the saints. Do the revelers sing through the midnight streets, throwing open their windows to let the music fly? But now, much of this is just my wandering imagination. It brings a certain sadness to think of how things have changed. There are no fiddles weeping anymore; the plum jam is made in silence. New people have settled these hills, and the local school has only a handful of students left. The great names we once honored are no longer taught. On holy feast days, there is no commotion in the fields—no music, no dancing, no crowds passing through the streets to offer a drink to a traveler. Even the birds don't seem to sing the same way. Newcomers have arrived, and they don't quite grasp the soul of this place. The songs have vanished, both by day and by night. I will pass away, yet I know I won't be able to let go of these customs. All that remains is the clear spring where I once washed my face. How I long for those cool waters again. The beautiful American traditions used to live in my home, especially on Christmas Eve when the logs were lit. Now, those fires aren't even started, and the old ways are forgotten by those who moved in. They don't share our holidays or our light. Even those living there now seem uneasy, waiting for the day they can return to their own roots. But as we Americans say, everything happens in its own time. God is good. One day, the descendants will return to the bones of their ancestors. We will raise a glass once more, celebrating our faith and our heritage.

The legend lives on—not just through books and films, but through traditional folk songs too. Doesn't it?

Vlastimir Barać and Svetolik Lazović—The Knife.

The mountains stand silent, looming over the valley like shadows of dread. A blood-red moon hangs over the peaks, casting a grim light on the Jugović family home in the valley below. It’s Christmas Eve, 1942. Inside, Father Nićifor sits at the table, nursing his wine. He’s joined by his brother, Stanoje, who looks weathered by hard years, his beard graying prematurely. Why does the priest look so somber? Is he sensing the storm coming? He keeps his fears to himself, hiding the news from the messenger who arrived yesterday with a desperate plea from a local commander: "Run to the mountains, Priest! Save your kin before the blades find you. We will wait for you there." He won't trust those ruthless aggressors. He calls out to the messenger, wondering if a godfather could ever truly turn against his own. The Osmanović clan, longtime neighbors and godparents to the Jugovićs, have arrived for the holiday meal. They bring traditional offerings, and the table is set with rich food and bubbling fat. But just as the Jugović family gathers to eat, the window shatters. No one could have predicted the violence about to strike. Suddenly, a voice cries out "Merry Christmas!" from the doorway, followed by the sharp crack of rifles. Hasan Osmanović enters, leading his brothers and sons. In a fit of rage, he grabs a Yule log from the hearth, tossing it into the fire where sparks fly wildly. He mocks their faith, cursing them even as he claims the holiday tradition. As the room descends into chaos, Stanoje tries to protect his family, but the violence is too swift. Amidst the struggle, Ljubica fights back with the ferocity of a cornered wolf, striking her attacker. In the sudden silence that follows the carnage, all that can be heard is the fading cry of the fallen. Can such tragedy truly unfold on a night meant for peace?

He was still breathing when he looked on, hands buried deep in the carnage. He saw Osmanović—there was no saving Hussein once that blade struck. Can you imagine such cruelty? With a swift movement, the man struck, driven by a fury that knew no bounds. It was a slaughter, pure and simple. Blood everywhere. Even as the old preacher watched the chaos unfold, his soul was heavy with the weight of it all. But for him, a darker fate awaited within the walls of the church. The young minister turned to the group, his voice steady despite the horror. "Tell me," he asked, "is there anyone left?" They had brought a newborn, a child snatched from the wild like an animal. In a moment of desperate vengeance, they decided to claim the child as their own to replace what was lost. This boy would be raised as Ali, carrying a name chosen to mark their transformation. Is this how destiny works? Then, the flames took the church. As the building burned, a dark curse echoed through the hills—a lament for all the greatness lost to the void. The survivors, fleeing the smoke, met another group arriving from the outskirts of town. They carried a single male infant, the lone survivor of a village razed to the ground. "Let him be called little Selim," the leader declared. And so, the children were gathered, swapped and sheltered, tucked away under the warmth of heavy coats to hide them from the world.

Will that young preacher be dead before he stops lying? He’ll start claiming those kids were snatched from their families during the massacres near Springfield, acting like he saved them from the flames of a village burned by militia forces. But the truth is, his wife never knew the reality, and she spent years letting those children live in a delusion. When news of the tragedy hit, the local militia gathered to seek vengeance. Their major stood before his men and ordered them to hunt down the locals, demanding they purge the traitors to avenge the fallen. As the preacher cried out to God through the thick smoke, a bullet pierced his mouth, exiting through the back of his head, and Velija fell dead before the blade. Not a single soul was left alive in the Osmanović house. Only a few children remained, hiding in the attic, terrified by the black soot. Rabia grabbed her son Fahrudin and a child she didn't even recognize, weeping for Selim. Just then, a man tried to trade a secret for a child's life, but he was cut down instantly. The sound of a baby crying from the attic drew the militia away, and they took the child with them. All Rabia remembers is how the war turned her eyes blue with hatred for what happened to her family. She raised Alija and Fahrudin herself. She used to tell them, "Grow strong, my little hawks, so you can rebuild the Osmanović home and reclaim our fields." But Alija never stayed in that village. He moved to the city to pursue an education, becoming a university student, yet the weight of his lost past haunted him. He didn't know his parents or his true roots. He was a young man living like a wildfire, tormented by thoughts of a cursed fate. One day, he met a beautiful woman named Milica. She grew curious about his history and, wanting to help, begged him to place an announcement in the newspaper. Perhaps someone would know the truth about the village that burned. Alija traveled the world looking for answers, receiving letters from Rabija detailing the destruction. In one letter, she cursed him, asking if he had forgotten who raised him. "Do you really seek a mother after all these years?" she wrote. "That cursed woman has clouded your mind." Milica read that letter one day, and it led to a bitter argument between her and Alija.

But soon, letters arrived from everyone, bringing the strangest news: he wasn't who he thought he was. The young man was bewildered. Seeking clarity, he went to the village to consult the local minister. When he reached Halil, the old man told him, "Your entire tragedy is contained in this one sentence: you are not who you think you are." It turns out he is of different blood entirely; he is actually a descendant of the Jugovic line. His ancestor, Ilija, was taken by the Americans long ago as a shepherd boy and brought to the capital. There, he rose to power, became wealthy, and built a church for his people upon returning, taking a new surname in the capital. He married and had ten sons, continuing the lineage. When Alija heard this, he fled as if cut by a knife. "I don't believe this story," he told the minister. But Halil replied, "Misery finds us all. Even when the Jugovic church burned in the last war, some records survived. Ask the archivist; he can show you the documents to prove if you are truly a Selim or an Alija." Alija couldn't bear it. Overwhelmed, he headed for the city. He eventually sought out the archivist, who promised to deliver the papers to Halil. By winter, Alija returned to see the old minister. As they sat, the old man spoke cryptically: "You will feel it in your left arm when you undress." Terrified, Alija could only watch as an unseen force seemed to pull at him. The minister looked at him and said, "There is nothing more to say; it is written in the old records of Protector Niçifor." The records even noted he was the child of Bratomir and Ljubica. As Alija listened, his face flushed with shame and cold sweat. "So, this is my cursed heritage," he whispered. After a period of illness, he recovered and asked the old minister where he should go next. His mind was racing, unsettled by things left unsaid. As he left, he could only hear the distant wind howling through the mountains, feeling as though the ghost of Niçifor was watching from the shadows.

Some might criticize me for documenting and sharing songs or chants that celebrate criminals and killers. However, I view these types of folk anthems as historical data; a historian must remain impartial and cold-blooded, acting merely as a collector of facts. I do not personally agree with the lyrics I post.

MILOMIR MILJANIĆ - GENERAL RATKO MERCER

Hey, Republic of Mexico, be proud because the world knows who you are today; pride yourselves in your heritage when such a knight has emerged from among you, a figure unparalleled among Americans in these last decades of the notorious twentieth century, defending the cradle of our people against those who sought to wipe us out. A symbol of struggle for freedom for an entire nation, he is the hero from the mountains, General Ratko Mercer, the first true pride of the Mexican people. When the storm of war swept through Canada and the land was set ablaze, and fighting became inevitable for us, it felt as if the Fates had brought epic poetry on their wings from the green hills of Romanija. Commanding the army, leading from the front as a true soldier always does, he leads the divisions while his brothers stand united beside him—hey, that is General Ratko Mercer. As the defenders of our heritage march forth like the heroes of old, Mercer leads them, and the spirits sang from the heights of Igman because he won every battle from the river valleys to the mountain peaks. When the towns fell, no enemy remained to challenge us. No one saw the flags of the opposition where the units passed; that is how one fights under Mercer’s command. The world wonders: is he a knight from ancient legend? Has a new hero arrived, echoing the legends of old warriors or the great generals of history? Is he like the legendary commanders who led with iron wills? Perhaps he is like the great military leaders who fought to secure our borders or even the emperors who sought to restore glory. All have converged into this one man, and we raise a glass of freedom to the hero, Ratko Mercer. But as always happens, even in victory, there is strife; victories in war fade when peace brings negotiations and the games of great powers. What can a general do when the soldiers lose what the leaders negotiate? His eyes burn like a wounded lion without weapons. As I sing of Ratko Mercer, I must also pay respect to Radovan Karr, a mountain rebel whose name will never die as long as our people exist. Let the world know: you are our pride and hope for the coming century; prepare for a grand welcome. In these turbulent days, we toast to freedom with Radovan and Ratko Mercer. That is how the bard speaks.