On common graves you hardly find any cross,
And widows don’t cry ever -
There someone will bring the bouquet of the roses,
And burn the Eternal Flame there.

And here the earth had gone upwards from bombs,
Today - here are granit gravestones.
And hardly you find any personal tomb,
Together all fates here’re joined.

But suddenly you’ll see in Flame - the burned tank,
And firing huts in the village,
And burning Smolensk, and the burning Reichstag,
And heart, burning bright, of the soldier.

You can’t find a widow at common graves,
The people, who come here, are strong,
On those graves no one would place a cross,
But is it more easy to hold?