Mikhail Isakovsky
His home was burned down by foe...

His home was burned down by foe,
They murdered all his kin and wife.
Where now the soldier has to go?
And what is left in his hard life?

In a wide field the soldier found,
Near the crossing of two paths,
A desolate small burial mound,
Grown `over with a native grass.

With a'lump in throat, he said, "My dear,
Your husband now you receive.
I came to you as a straight hero
And don't deserve that much of grief.

In our home lay wide cloth,
The guest with honor you've to treat.
I won the war, so now we'll both
Rejoice our long-awaited meet."

Nobody answered to the soldier,
Except the murmuring wild grass.
Warm summer wind was getting bolder,
Made it to vacillate and rustle.

The soldier deeply sighed and frowned,
Took off his kit-bag, opened it;
The bottle of vodka he put down
On the gravestone grey granit.

"Do not denounce me, my dear,
That I have come to you like this.
I planned to drink with words of cheer.
Instead, I'm drinking for your peace.

Let all wives meet their men tomorrow.
Yet, this is not about us..."
He drank his vodka with his sorrow
Mixed half and half in a'mug of brass.

He drank without toasts and cheers,
Just once he rised the mug to say,
"I went to you for four long years,
Conquered four countries on my way,

But all my hopes 're dead". And bitter
Tears came out. And on his chest,
Like one of them, did slightly glitter
The medal for taking Budapest.

Translated by Vladimir Gurvich