Yesterday my friend rang me,

He could hardly speak:

«You know about Nord-Ost, of course,
There… My Pavlik, my son, died there.»

I am numb.  But there are tears in the phone:

«But why?  He never really lived.
It's absurd.  Roses on the grave.
I used to carry him in my arms.»

I am silent.  There are no words. There cannot be any,
How to console a mother, a father?
I suffer with them.  The heart gnaws at me:

«But why?  They are without sin.»

I am silent, silent.  Ice in the hands,
Sepulchral chill on the lips,
While a memorial, inside the little boy's door,
We were fifty times at the home of Y.P.

Toast after toast in honor of the celebrant,
We wished him to live to a hundred,
And that his home would know peace and delight

And that misfortune would never visit.

Everything was as always, everything was in our heart:
Merriment, songs rang out;
Someone got up to mix, I went to the kitchen,
For a drink of plain water.

Back then there was this toy;
Hands grew weary,
Trying to solve
Rubik's Cube.

It was not easy,
Many sweated over it.
However did it was simply a genius,
And brought praise from all.

Pasha sat quietly in the kitchen;
He held the cube in his hands.

«Well, how about it? Is it difficult?

Can you solve it or not?»

He nodded his head. «I know how.»

«Can you prove it?»
He twisted it about,

«The colors are lined up, you can take it now.»

What to remember?  After work

The three of us were plodding to the Metro

And of course, concerned about supper,
Our wives were on duty.  What to eat?

Only Platonov was calm: 

«I'm not worried about a thing
Pavlukha is a worthy culinary specialist,

He'll find something to feed his father.»

«Summertime soup, or borsch, it's a small undertaking,
My son buys everything he needs.
I'll eat all the while regretting,
That we're going to a diner.»

Like his older brother, after two honest years
Service on the border.
Shoulder boards with little diamonds on his epaulets,
But not one reprimand.

To his parents, from his commanders,

Appreciation:  «Your son is good!»

Proud parents, their joy,

That they are not ashamed of their sons.

Two years and then he returned home.
He wed, gave them a granddaughter.
Disorder in the nation, but he was not bewildered,
He worked and fed his family.

Sons stood solidly on their own two feet,
This is the parents' dream -
And good health, just that,
There is someone strong to help them out.

Then suddenly the blow.  But why, oh Lord?
We still live, but our son is not with us.
He is not with us, and so too do we
Have no life in this world.

Why did he, and the others, die?

Why do coffins knock at homes?
Why do we have such untamed times,
Fear for our children in the midst of the poverty?

We put bloodsuckers in power.
Though it is bitter to admit, the
Fault is ours, for these
Know neither conscience not honor.

War rages in the nation.
They murder us, but we are silent.
How do we differ from cattle?
Only in that we do not low when slaughtered.

Raisa Pavlovna, and Y. P., I know this does not help the grief.

A hand did not raise a toast to you on this New Year's night.

Take heart.  The grandchildren are with you.

They need, they need your hands,
The blood of your children flows within them.
To them, to the grandchildren, let us give the rest of our days.

Unknown author.

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