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A letter to mother

"Greetings, momma!
I'm writing a letter again.
Greetings, momma!
Everything is fine, like last time.
 
Everything is as usual, the Sun is shining,
The fog is rising over the mountain...
You know, momma, it's not all that bad here,
It is simply Afghanistan.
 
How are the old folks doing?
I had a dream in which I saw you all.
How's my little sister?
Has she moved on to fourth grade?
 
Momma, would you please invite Olga
Over to our place more often,
And tell her that I'll be coming home soon,
So that she'll wait for me?
 
Momma, would you please invite Olga
Over to our place more often,
And tell her that I'll be coming home soon,
So that she'll wait for me?"
 
The mother reads the letter, and in her eyes hangs a mist.
The mother reads the letter, all of it a mixture of truth and deception.
She can't find the strength to pull herself away from the grave,
Her son is in the ground, and upon the palms of her hands the sheet of paper of this letter.
She can't find the strength to pull herself away from the grave,
Her son is in the ground, and upon the palms of her hands a medal of the Order of the Red Star.
 
Yesterday, along with the autumn wind
Grief knocked on the window,
And today, at daybreak,
The postman brought her the letter.
 
In it, he is alive, he is laughing,
And wishes to go on that way for many years to come.
"Greetings, momma! Greetings, eternity!"
We haven't the right to forget them...
 
In it, he is alive, he is laughing,
And wishes to go on that way for many years to come.
"Greetings, momma! Greetings, eternity!"
We haven't the right to forget them.
 
Greetings, momma!
 
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