I will write in an hour after the battle,
But don't hope, do not wait only trust.
Squadrons only run without looking around,
Leaving the dead somehow to lie in the dust.
We don't ask our God for mercy, it’s useless.
We expect only steppe and a bullet in chase.
And the last our autumn’s embroidery crosses,
On the worn-out gold, our badges embrace.
I will write in an hour after my death's call,
But don't hope, do not wait for it now at all.
Sealed in ink, the envelope it will be enthralled.
With my blood, sealed so heavily tight in this fall.
We don't ask our God for a mercy, its useless
We are heavily tired of the soldier's slang.
And the last our autumn embroiders the crosses,
On the worn-out gold, our badges just sang.
And the last our autumn embroiders the crosses,
On the worn-out gold, our badges just sang.
The last autumn, the famous romance
© Copyright: Павел Ишанов, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123101702136
Свидетельство о публикации №123101702136
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