They were burnt in tanks, my comrades,
burnt to embers, cinders, reduced to ash.
Grass grew out of them, of course,
grass that spreads over half the world.
My comrades
were blown up
on mines,
pitched high in the air,
and many stars, remote and peaceful,
were kindled
from them,
from my friends.
There's talk of them on holidays,
they're shown on films,
and those who were my schoolmates and fellow students
have long since become lines in poems.
Сгорели в танках мои товарищи —
До пепла, до золы, дотла.
Трава, полмира покрывающая,
Из них, конечно, произросла.
Мои товарищи на минах
Подорвались,
взлетели ввысь,
И много звёзд, далёких, мирных,
Из них,
моих друзей,
зажглись.
Про них рассказывают праздники,
Показывают их в кино,
И однокурсники, и одноклассники
Стихами стали уже давно.