A poem from martyred Novorussian Revolutionary hero Aleksey Mozgovoi.  Rest in Power.

It is a gift to die in May—

An easy task to dig a grave,

And nightingales will sing their song

Inimitably, like their last.

 

In May, the thunder of storms supplants

A funerals’ dismal songs and sounds,

And rain that comes instead of tears

Dissolves the memories’ regret.

 

The shelt’ring barrow of the grave

Beneath the emerald of grass;

A cross is a redundant mark

Among a grove of weary birch.

 

Beneath the rustling newborn leaves,

With irrepresible thirst for life,

The sun has yet to burn the grass,

And every thing is animate.

 

It is a gift to die in May,

To stay behind in vernal dew.

And though I could not do it all,

There are no doubts where none remain…

It is a gift, to die in May…

Attributed to…