Konstantin Simonov
Death of a Friend

In memory of Yevgeny Petrov

It isn’t true that friends don’t perish,
But next to you they cease to be.
He does not share the blood you cherish,
Nor with your jar will he make free.

As blizzard rages round the dugout
He sings his drinking songs no more
And next to you, beneath one greatcoat,
Beside the stove he doesn’t snore.

But after all you shared together,
And all that you had left behind,
To his remains you could not tether,
His grave to you was not assigned.

His cussed anger and his patience –
They were his legacy to you,
Your vision cleared, ears caught new cadence,
These things you gained, your whole life through.

To wives we leave our ardent passion,
To sons bequeath our memories’ trends,
But war-scorched earth’s the only ration
We can bequeath to soldier friends.

We still don’t have a cure for losing
To unexpected death our friends.
Its burden is the more abusing
When closest ones thus meet their ends.

He, willing, took it on his shoulder,
He didn’t baulk at anything,
The rifled foe and ashes’ smoulder
Upon them all himself did fling.

So when you can no longer bear it,
Remember, as he clasped his head,
All he could do was shift the burden
To others who were still not dead.

And someone who to you’s a stranger
Will take the burden from your hand,
For dead ones rise now as avenger,
And take your place on victor’s stand.

Translated by Rupert Moreton