You won’t see a cross on the brotherly graves,
There widows would not be seen crying.
But someone will come, carrying flower bouquets,
Igniting the flames everlasting.
The earth in this place was all bucking with force,
But now it is covered with granite.
You won’t find a singular story in war,
All fates will remain reunited.
And one could still see in the glistening flames
Those Russian abodes left to smolder,
The burning Reichstag and our burning Smolensk,
The burning hot heart of a soldier.
No widow would cry for her husband she lost,
All visitors there are seasoned.
A brotherly grave is not topped with a cross,
But does it make life any easier?