The heat has cooled in the empty stove, Our little son's laughter on the floor. The crooked candle’s wax melts above, Shadows whisper beside the door. A gaze to the window, a prayer to the icon: "Where are you, my love, my dear...?" In every sob, in every broken moan: "We wait for you... come home, alive and near." The fire of torn wounds burns red... With a glazed look, your horse sleeps dead... The ranks are broken, the soldiers flee wide... The centurion lies where he died... No strength left to clasp a hand in pain, While ravens gather to feast again...! Morning brings the sparkle of dew, An echo wakes the empty yard. The ringing whistle of the scythe cuts through, An axe replies from the forest hard. War steals the husband and father away, Only the barking of dogs will wake the morn— We wait by the porch, day after day, He promised: “I’ll return when spring is born.” Sated with blood is the sharp-edged blade... Tired of tearing, and the wounds it made... Hacked to pieces, the ancient shield... Crushed breastplate, helmet pierced on the field... The weight of the armor has fallen from his chest, And his weary heart has come to rest... I will sew a little shirt once more, "No, my love, not for you this time..." You asked God for a daughter to adore, With eyes that mirrored mine... You didn't know before you had to part— I didn't want to burden your heart— That right at our threshold, through sun and rain, With our little one, I’d greet you again. Silent now are the battle's cries... A blade of sedge like a razor lies... Nothing disturbs your deep repose, For you the final battle close... You will not hear the prayers we shed, Above your stone, among the dead. At night a prophetic dream drew near... I know you are hurrying home, my dear... A falcon beat hard at the window frame... It was you... who whispered my name.
