There is not a month in my life,
not one lonely month in a year,
not one forsaken day, when memory
is not dearer than life itself,
that I do not think about that heroic city.
History is forged forever there
in the cement streets paved by workers’ hands
where lovers once walked hand in hand
in the cool days of springtime.
In the summer of 1942,
those serene boulevards were fought for,
street by street, building by building,
every hour of the day and night,
and no quarter was given,
not even to the dogs who tried to flee the city.
Even the living despaired that they
had lived too long to remember
that a country dies but once
in the hearts of its people.
It was in the great city of Stalingrad
that the people of the world made their stand.
A grenade thrown is a restless heart,
A bayonet charge is a reminder
of who we are in the struggle with death,
hand-to-hand combat is a living memory
of the banner that rages in our hearts.
This is our legacy.
We owe our lives to Stalingrad.