The Nazis burnt his home to ashes,
His family they murdered there,
Where shall the soldier home from battle
Go now, to whom his sorrow bear?
He stood with tears of sorrow welling
And scarcely able breath to draw
He said: “Praskovya dear, come welcome
Your hero-husband back from war”.
But in reply there came no answer,
No welcome for the soldier brave.
Only a breeze that way came glancing
And stirred the grass upon the grave...

He paused a while, his belt he strengthened,
And, from the kitbag at his side
A flask of bitter vodka taking,
He placed it on her grave and sighed.
The soldier drank and wept for many
A broken dream, while on his chest
There shone a newly-minted medal
For liberating Budapest...