They don’t put crosses on mass graves,
And widows don’t sob over them,
Someone brings bouquets of flowers here,
And lights the Eternal flame.

Here earth once stood in rows,
But now there are granite slabs.
Here there isn’t a single personal fate -
All fates were poured into one.

But in the eternal flame an exploding tank is visible
Burning Russian huts,
Burning Smolensk and burning Reichstag,
A burning soldier’s heart.

At the mass graves there are no crying widows -
Stronger people come here.
They don’t put crosses on mass graves,
But really, is it any easier?