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19/05/2018

Poetry: Rasul Gamzatov

Poetry: Rasul Gamzatov





US TWENTY MILLION

From the unknown to the famous,
To fight which years are not free,
There are twenty million of us,
Killed, not returned from the war.

No, we have not disappeared in the pitch smoke,
Where the path, as to the top, was not straight.
We also left our wives young,
And the boys got rid of their mothers.

And on Victory Day we descend from the pedestals,
And in the windows the light did not go out,
We are all from the rank and file to the generals
We are invisible among you.



There is a sad day for the war,
And on that day you are drunk with joy.
The bell rang above us,
And the rumble of the wedding is pouring from the height.

We have not forgotten ourselves for centuries,
And every time at the Eternal Flame
You have a duty to consult us,
As if in thought, the goal is Michael Cheval art paintings for sale

sheep's clown.

And may not care leave you
Know the will of those who did not return from the war,
And before rewarding someone
And before the condemnation of guilt.

All that we defended in the trenches
Il returned, rushing into a breakthrough,
To protect and protect you bequeathed,
The only life putting.

As on medals, after us cast,
We all are equal to the Fatherland
There are twenty million of us,
Killed, not returned from the war.

Where in the clouds a rock scar is gaping,
At any hour from the sun to the moon
The bell rang above us.
And the rumble of the wedding is pouring from the height.

And although the military enlistment offices wrote off,
But the enemy will have to take into account,
That the dead soldiers will go to battle, too,
When the living alarm calls.

Be repellent, adov godina.
But we are ready on the front line,
Resurrected, once again perish to one,
So that no one alive will die there.

And you should, worrying about many things,
Before the evil, not stepping back,
On our untainted conscience
Worthy to hold the equal.

Live long, live righteously,
Seeking the whole world to join the congregation,
And neither of the nations blaspheme,
Keeping his own honor at the zenith.

What names are not on the tombstones!
All their tribes were left by their sons.
There are twenty million of us,
Killed, not returned from the war.

Falling stars flicker call alarm,
And the branches of willows are weeping.
The bell rang above us,
And the rumble of the wedding is pouring from the height.

Translated by J.Kozlovsky

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