Alexander Tvardovsky
I was killed near Rzhev...

I was killed near Rzhev
In a nameless bog,
In fifth company,
On the Left flank,
In a cruel air raid

I didn’t hear explosions
And did not see the flash
Down to an abyss from a cliff
No start, no end

And in this whole world
To the end of its days —
Neither patches, nor badges
From my tunic you’ll find

I am where the blind roots
Seek for food in the dark
I am where the rye waves
On a hill in the dust

I am where the cockerel cries
In the dew of the dawn
I am where your cars
Tear the air on highways

Where — small stalk to small stalk —
River’s weaving its grass
Where for the remembrance
Even my mother won’t come

In a bitter year’s summer
I was killed. And for me
Neither news nor bulletins
Will come after this day

Would you, the living, count
How long before that
For the first time in front news
They named Stalingrad

The front burned without stopping
Like a scab on the flesh
I was killed and I don’t know
Is Rzhev ours at last?

Have ours held their ground
There, on the Middle Don?
This was the month of horror
Everything was at stake

Could it be that by autumn
He already took Don?
And he broke through to Volga
Riding onto its bank?

No, it’s not true! That mission
He could never complete.
No way I say, no! Even for the dead
It would be too terrible to hear

Even the dead and voiceless
Have one last single joy
We have fallen for the Motherland
But it’s finally saved.

Our eyes have faded
Out is the flame of our hearts
And up there, at roll calls
They are not calling us.

We’re like bumps or stones
Even darker and dumber.
Our memory eternal —
Who is jealous to it?

Our ashes are rightfully
Owned by black earth
Our eternal glory
Is of little delight.

We shall not wear our
Battle awards
This is all for you, the living,
We have just one last joy

That we didn’t fight in vain
For our Motherland
Let our voice be inaudible
You’ve got to know it now.

And you had to, my brothers,
Stand fast like a wall
For the curse of the dead
Is a terrible wrath

We are forever given
This bitter right
And it is forever ours
This bitter right

In the summer of forty-two
I was buried without a grave
Everything what came later
Was taken by the death

All, what has been for many
So clear and common
But then may it all be
In accord with our belief

Brothers, maybe you didn’t
Lose the Don battlefield only
And were dying in battles
Fighting behind Moscow

And in steppes behind Volga
Dug your trenches in haste
And in battles you marched
To the limits of Europe

For us it would suffice
To know for sure
There was that last inch
On the road of war —

That very last inch:
If it is abandoned,
There’s nowhere to put
The foot that had stepped behind

And you drove the enemy
Back to the West
May it be so, my brethren
And Smolensk’s now ours

And you’re crushing the enemy
On the other front,
And maybe it’s the border
Your are nearing now?

May it be… Let the holy oath’s
Words be fulfilled:
For Berlin, if you remember
Was named near Moscow

Brothers, who now trample
The stronghold of enemy land
If the dead and the fallen
Could only cry!

If only victory salvoes could
Resurrect us for an instant,
Us, deaf and numb,
Us, who rest in eternity

O, my faithful comrades,
Only then at this war
Your limitless happiness
You would realise!

In this happiness there is
Our inalienable part,
Our, severed by the death,
Faith and hatred and passion.

All is ours! We did not cheat,
In this cruel fight,
We have given all ours
And left nothing to ourselves

Everything is bequeathed to you
For all time, not for a term
And this mental voice of ours
Is no reproach to the living.

For we had no distinction
In this war at all:
Those living and those fallen —
We were all equal.

And no one of the living
Is indebted to us
Those, who took up the colours
From us on the run

Only to fall one step later
For the holy cause,
For the Soviet power,
Like all of us.

I was killed at Rzhev,
And he — somewhere near Moscow…
Where are you, warriors, where,
Is there anyone alive?!

In the million-large cities
In the villages, at family homes?
At the military garrisons,
On a foreign land?

Ah, does it really matter
If it’s foreign or ours
If it’s snow-covered or blossoming…

I bequeath you to live —
What more can I do?

I bequeath you to be happy
In your life over there
And to serve your Motherland
With honour for long.

When in sorrow — be proud,
Do not bend down your head
When rejoicing — don’t boast
In the victory hour.

And to safeguard, brothers, this victory,
The happiness of yours, —
In the memory of your warrior-brother
Who has fallen for it.

Translated by unknown author