Music by M. Blanter
Lyrics by M. Isakovsky

Singing M. Bernes
Translated by Em Rostverg



The foes burnt down his home and house,
And killed entire family.
Where to go now ought the soldier,
And who can carry sorrow to? 

The soldier went off in despair
To the small junction of two roads,
And found the soldier in the wide field
A grass overgrown little mound.

The soldier stood and unshed tears
Were felt like a lump stuck in his throat.
The soldier said, "Hello, Praskovya!
Here is Your Hero and Your spouse.

Prepare a feast for the guest of honor
And cover a table in the hut, -
His day, the day of his return,
To you he’s come to celebrate..."

No one did answer to the soldier,
And no one came to greet him.
And only a warm and summer breeze
Rustled the grass at this small grave.

The soldier sighed and fixed his belt
And opened his belongings bag,
He got a bottle of the "bitters"
And put it on the gray gravestone.


"Don't judge me harshly, my Praskovya,
That I have come to you like this:
I wanted to toast to our future,
But now must drink to your decease.

Friends and girlfriends will come together,
But we shall never meet again..."
And drank the soldier from an old mug
The wine with deep grief, half and half.

The soldier - a servant of the people -
Was drinking with pain in his heart:
"I spent four long… long years coming,
I liberated three big lands..."

As getting drunk, the tears started flowing.
The tears of the ruined hopes,
And on his chest was brightly shining
A medal for... for Budapest.



© 2015-2023 The Institute of the Sun
Pictures of the paintings: Sergrei Didyk