The Buryat Siberian Russian from Buryatia

A new version of the poem "The Italian" by Mikhail Svetlov (1943)

On the chest of a Buryat rests a black cross
No carving, no pattern, no shiny gloss,
A modest heirloom worn by their only son,
Forever will hang on his lonely tomb…

Young Russian from far-off Siberian Buryatia!
What did you leave in Ukraine behind you?
Why couldn’t you stay at home to be happy
Safe and sound near your Baikal sea?

I am the one who killed you near Kherson
Who dreamt of the distant Baikal so often
How I yearned on the Dnipro to be free,
Just once to take a trip to Baikal and its sea!

But I didn’t come there to you with a gun,
To take away your life and summer sun.
My bullets were not fired to whistle by
In your own Baikal’s sacred, peaceful sky.      

I shot and killed you here where I was born,
Where I was proud to fight like those before,
Who died for us that we might share their pride
Defending lives whose tales have been denied.      

The winding, twisting river Dnipro flows
In ways a Russian scientist never knows.
This is our land and always will so remain
Did you ever plough or sow here in Ukraine?

No! You came here in trucks and tanks to seize,
And kill, destroying these distant colonies,
So the family’s modest cross and heirloom
Will grow to the size of a soldier’s tomb…

I warn you now, so it is not mistaken
I will not let my dear homeland be taken!
Each shot I take is with Ukrainian pride,
Each bullet comes with justice on its side!

You never lived here, never came in peace!
But scattered in our blackened snowy fields,
Glazed in the frozen gaze of those dead eyes,
Still now reflect great Lake Baikal’s blue skies…

Samuel Novnik © 2022