They donít put crosses on mass graves, And widows donít 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 isnít 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 soldierís heart. At the mass graves there are no crying widows - Stronger people come here. They donít put crosses on mass graves, But really, is it any easier?
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?