At a railway station, a thousand miles past Brest, our train stopped short, then we saw the two standing. A man with his son, whose hair had been shaved, and we knew where his son was going.

 

The sons are leaving, are not even fully grown yet, are born long after the last war. But the man surely still knows how the bread of war smelled, perhaps he has lost his father then.

 

He gave him a pipe and a red ruble bill, poured some vodka into his dry throat. Went with a heavy peasant step, on the worn path to the houses we saw in the distance.

 

The sons are leaving, are not even fully grown yet, are born long after the last war. But the man surely still knows how the bread of war smelled, perhaps he has lost his father then.

 

And ask him if he needs your London, your Dortmund, your Rome, and your Bremen. He returns a curse, and the bitterness in his eyes shouldn't offend the one who asked.

 

The sons are leaving, are not even fully grown yet, are born long after the last war. But the man surely still knows how the bread of war smelled, perhaps he has lost his father then.

 

The sons are leaving, are not even fully grown yet, are born long after the last war. But the man surely still knows how the bread of war smelled, perhaps he has lost his father then.