On the same place and many times
The earth was dug right there by shovels,
And every grave became, at last,
The one communal grave of ours.

As if a cross stands on a cross,
And if to mind that our way's shortest -
We're sorry: to live cooped, in most,
And after death be laid in closeness.

Though someone's sleep may be still brief,
Again one's waked in the crammed kingdom,
And we, alive, prefer to live
Not as before, but in a freedom.

And if to lie in darkness, still,
Behind the term that's given out,
Then - under pines of the high hill,
From where is seen all far around.