No crosses stand on the mass graves of war.
No widows come to shed tears.
Yet someone is laying the wreaths as before
And lights the Eternal Flame here.

Where in the past, rich earth was the state,
Granite slabs rose from the mud.
Here there is no single personal fate -
All fates merge together for good.

In the Eternal Flame, a tank is a pyre
Russian villages are set fire in turns,
Smolensk is on fire, the Reichstag’s on fire
And the heart of a soldier burns.

No tearful widows pass here any more
Those who come are as tough as they go.
No crosses stand on the mass graves of war.
But is that any easier though?