Mikhail Isakovsky
The enemy had burned his cottage home...

The enemy had burned his cottage home,
And murdered all his family.
So where can a soldier turn his steps,
To whom can he carry his sorrow?

In his deep grief the soldier went
Until he came to a crossroad.
He found in the expanse of field
A mount that was overgrown with grass.

The soldier stood and choked back
The lumps he felt rising in his throat.
The soldier said: "Praskovya, welcome home
A hero — it's your husband.

"Prepare refreshments for your guest,
Lay the wide table in the house —
My day, the occasion of my return,
I've come to celebrate with you..."

There was nobody to answer him,
And nobody to meet the soldier,
It was only the warm breeze of summer
That stirred the grass upon the grave.

The soldier sighed, adjusted his belt,
And opening his soldier's knapsack,
He then placed a little bottle
Upon the gray tombstone and said:

"Do not blame me, Praskovya,
That I have come to you like this:
I meant to drink your health,
And now must drink that you should rest in peace.

"Boys and girls will be reunited,
But you and I shall never be..."
The soldier drank from a copper cup
Wine and sorrow half and half.

He drank, the soldier, the people's servant,
And with sore heart said then:
"It took four years for me to reach you;
I subdued three countries on my way."

The soldier grew tipsy, and a tear
Rolled down, for all his shattered hopes,
And on his breast there shone a medal
For capturing Budapest.

Translated by Lubov Yakovleva