They donít put up crosses at the graves of the brothers, And widows donít come here to weep. Somebo dy brings them a bouquet of flowers And lights an Eternal flame. Here the earth would stick out of the ground, And now - granite flagstones. Here there is no personal fate All fates are mixed into one. Within the flame - you see explosions of tanks, Russian homes burning. A burning Smolensk and a burning Reichstag, The burning heart of a soldier. At the graves of the brothers there are no widows in tears, Stronger people go here. They donít put up crosses at the graves of the brothers... But is that any better?
© Robert Young. Translation, 2002