Wounds

You, Kind sisters, for so log
Shared with us the burden of war!
Your eyes are dark with smoke,
And your sleeves are crimsoned with blood.
You took the wounded from the battle,
Forgetting fear,
Under your hands were falling asleep
The ones who were tired in marching and battles.
We remember your bright smiles
And arched sable eyebrows.
Thank you for your kind care,
The favourites of the dearly loved motherland!
And on the victory day, dismissing the sorrows,
Hugging the bunches of field flowers,
You bring light to the tired souls
To the cemetery of native towns.
Many wounds, dear beauties,
You will have to heal in the native land.
The enemy Is defeated, but each town is wounded,
The child in tears, who has lost its mother.
Let your hands, your small hands,
Take the burden of joyful chores:
You will reanimate the silent towns!
Become a family for thousands of orphans!
You on the fields saturated with blood
As a spring rain pour the peaceful sweat!
Come sisters!
You to a new heroic deed
The motherland is calling!