They don’t put up crosses on communal graves,
And widows don’t 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 isn’t 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 don’t visit the place,
To give and receive the blessing.
They don’t put up crosses on communal graves
But does it make less distressing?