They donít put up crosses on communal graves, And widows donít come to shed tears; But flowers are laid and eternal flames Will never be quenched, it appears. The earth that was shaking and heaving of late With granite and marble is plated. There isnít a single separate fate, All fates are in one integrated. We see in the flame our burning tank, A house on fire and smoulder, The burning Smolensk and the burning Reichstag, The burning heart of a soldier. The tearful widows donít visit the place, To give and receive the blessing. They donít put up crosses on communal graves But does it make less distressing?
© Alec Vagapov. Translation, 1998