No crosses stand over these war graves of ours,
No windows come sobbing to mourn here.
But people bring garlands and bouquets of flowers,
And a small flame perpetually burns here.
This place was once bare, the earth ravaged and torn,
Today it has slabs for a cover.
Today in the graves are these dead all made one -
Their separate lives now are over.
But deep in the flame you see gutted tanks smoke,
And razed Russian villages smoulder;
Blazing Smolensk*, and the blazing Reichstag,
The fierce blazing heart of the soldier.
No sorrowing wives wet these graves with their tears.
The people who come here are stronger.
No crosses stand over these war graves of ours -
But is there, for all that, less to mourn for?