To Nikolay Skomorokhov and his deceased friend
All this war to the chock-full I would dream of my mother,
And although I was fuming, I was fighting with skill.
But my friend, he was hurrying, he forgot to take cover,
Through the war back and forth did he hover; In two years it was virtually nil!

Since the forty-third summer
his heart’s pulse haven’t been heard.
I myself fell in slumber
of a conflict-free world.

Every breath comes with effort;
I stare down like a drunk.
He was kind, he was better, much better...
I myself had dumb luck.

I did not ask for favors, nor was favored by Fortune,
I did not seek reserves to be as snug as a bug;
But the women’s eyes always reprimanded me watching:
"And if only you’d stayed there forever, then perhaps my man would have come back."

There is nothing so cryptic
in their silent reprise;
I myself feel so twisted
that their dreams were capsized.

I came up with an earnest:
"Please forgive, I’m alive!
By pure chance I’m returning, returning...
But he failed to survive."

Flames were reaching his cockpit, but his voice came back pulsing;
"You must live! You will make it!" - through the noise I have heard.
We were flying in heaven, near the Abraham’s bosom;
He ascended and that’s where he landed, I myself made it back to the earth.

The reception on heavens
was a cold-hearted one.
Forced to land on the belly,
he would grovel to none;

Now his sleep is long-lasting,
but his song was cut short.
I survived, I’m returning, returning...
He will not come along.

I will always feel guilty before those who had fallen,
Before those whom today I would be honored to meet.
And although we’re survivors of the last day of combat,
We are burned by our past, by our morals - only those, who kept conscience clean.

Someone, pedant and thrifty,
is in charge of our clocks.
Pilots’ lives run too swiftly
Just like landing field’s blocks.

Some have crashed, some have made it,
others took off for good.
As for me, I have landed, have landed...
Wish that he also would.