The memories are strong

The memories are strong — the shelling, mortars, grenades, assault rifles, infantry forced marches... And faith in a miracle, that tomorrow will come... And that memory has rubbed out the shots and screams. Her love will cook a tasty breakfast And the faces of the dead will stop haunting people... Alas, he's where all the others are, They glance at us and smile without a word. Heaven's gates for them — for us, gates of steel. The trail leads to the cross and never errs. An old woman sits at the edge of a grave. Plastic flowers, a candle, a fence, a bench. And day by day she finds the strength to be brave — She's never touched booze or weed, not a pinch. Lost in thought — into the crush of the bus. Better that than the emptiness around. A burning tank, a friend forever without a sound... She goes to him only in thoughts, in tears, To take him to her — with begging eyes She's shot the sky full of holes searching for a reply, Powerless to overturn the veto from on high. And she fears nothing at all but life. Him, only him, just him alone Her battered soul is longing for, And waits all the time to meet him alone... But... a voice abruptly calls the stop, And again the crush, the bench, the wrought-steel fence... And in the pre-dawn haze a crowing cock Will set it all back on its circle once again.