Dedicated to the comrades of the 108th
Guards, twice Red-Bannered,
Order of Suvorov II degree
Rifle Division.
For those who are with us.
We would sing a song, yet the song won’t come…
Bullets whistled through the past.
The Guards sang like nightingales.
They didn’t finish. Fell silent. Slept.
Oh, what a hopak we would have danced!
But it cannot be, the soul forbids:
In the forest belts near Melitopol,
The daring dancers lie,
Not heeding the absurd ban.
The solemn poppy blazes
Above the unknown great poet
Struck down near the district center Tokmak.
A city of glory, of shipbuilders,
Land of brides, doves, and poetry.
We would have thrown such a wedding there!
Alas, the grooms had to be buried.
Joyful as the song “Yablochko,”
And elegant like a lady of society,
The beauty Odessa everywhere
Is fondly called “Mama.”
Mama’s sons are stubborn.
They die, yet take one step forward.
The city-mother remembers each one
And sheds a tear for every soldier.
We fought for the freedom of great and small,
Of foreign and dear cities,
Weary from war,
Fighting a mortal, desperate battle.
And in the graves the soldiers do not sleep.
It is hard, ammunition is scarce.
In hand-to-hand, with bayonet and curse,
They tear through the fascist defense.
And here, for us, it is May 9th.
A holiday, the crowd stretches endlessly…
Still, we will sing, but first,
We will drink standing, comrades,
Silently drink, friends, remembering
The fighter who passed into eternity.