Morning light glinted off the polished bayonets,
Rifles were proudly shouldered.
Noble Russians,
Sent off to fight.
With patriotic fervor,
They declared, "Victory or death"!
Or so did the officers,
Order their men.
To the line of battle,
The conscripted soldiers marched.
Then an explosion,
Of fire and sound.
All is lost,
All is chaos.
A private looks about,
Alone in a world of terror.
Eardrums rupture,
While dust shields out the sky.
Yet strangely,
Everything is clear.
Shrapnel!
Duck, dodge, shield the face.
Time is passing so slowly,
No detail missed.
Look, there, in the distant horizon.
The plane that dropped the bomb.
Wait, more,
They're coming back!
Comrades shout out,
In silent cries.
A vague rumble behind,
And the bunker crumbles.
Waves of fire advance,
And he scurries into a hole.
Silence,
Temporary, but glorious.
The coast is now clear.
Marshalling his senses,
The private stands up.
Debris is everywhere,
Corpses lay about.
Rag dolls in a game,
That's all we are.
The standard-bearer walks over.
One is now two.
More men gather,
And gaze upon the enemy line.
Tanks, artillery, endless ranks of rifles.
There can be no victory.
The private looks at the ruins.
Stalingrad is dead.
Why do we fight?
Officers have fled,
We are dying for a tyrant.
Then appears a figure in the distance.
A young boy.
Dragging a gun,
To fight the Nazi horde.
A single clear shot rings out,
And the child collapses.
And the man is reminded of his duty,
To the people of Russia.
Form up!
Arm yourselves!
Fix bayonets!
Grim, but resolute,
The men prepare for one last charge.
This is no mindless parade,
But is instead the ultimate defiance.
For the Motherland!
For Russia,
To Victory!
(Or so is the myth).
While a little voice whispers,
For the people, and what is right.
