It is as if my friends are marching <br />And I along with them, in time, <br />Through many different streets they're passing, <br />Those nearest, dearest friends of mine. <br /> <br />They are not those with whom I started <br />And learned my letters, in my place, <br />Nor those with whom I shaved moustaches <br />Still scarcely noticed on the face. <br /> <br />We have not drunk our tea together, <br />Divided bread in equal shares. <br />Quite unaware of my existence, <br />They go about their own affairs. <br /> <br />And yet the time will come when fortune <br />Will bring us side by side in war. <br />We'll tear a corner from a letter <br />To wrap the bread we both will share. <br /> <br />And we shall use an empty food-can <br />To scoop up water for a friend <br />And wrap a spare puttee around him <br />To help his wounded leg to mend. <br /> <br />By Konigsberg, one early morning, <br />We both shall fall, two wounded men, <br />And then a month in hospital, <br />And we'll survive, and back again. <br /> <br />The sacred hot offensive frenzy, <br />The bitter, brutal toil of war <br />Will bind as one our generation - <br />An iron knot for evermore.<br /><br />Konstantin Mikhailovich Simonov<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/comrades-in-arms-3/
