At the village end, the old hut stands alone. There prays aged mother before an icon. Her prayer remembers her son, and his friends, Now saving their homeland, in far-off lands. She prays, drying the tears, and fighting mirages, For her tired eyes see frightening images. She sees a field, a field before battle, And there her hero-son lies dead, among the dying cattle. On his broad breast blood splashed making stains, In his cold hands the enemy's banner remains. From happiness and bitterness, now her twin friends, She stands frozen, silver head bowed in the palms of her hands. Sparse gray hair falls on her brow and ears, And from her eyes, pour bead-like tears.