p “When children cry, they grow,” so people say.
But when I hear a youngster cry forlornly,
My heart turns over with such dreadful pain,
The very mountains round me seem to put on mourning.

p I can’t forget those children in the burnt-out rye,
The gory flames of war upon them creeping...
And every time I hear a youngster cry
I fancy that the Universe is weeping.

Translated by Olga Shartse