The Little Tin Soldier Of My Son Poem by Bulat Okudzhava

1964

The nightingales fill earth with notes
And the May rain - with sense of charms,
But a tin soldier, little and honest,
Is doomed to endless feats of arms.

May be, a craftsman, sad and shabby,
Pushed in the world him, with disgust.
Ask the tin soldier, "Are you happy?"
And he'll take aim at you at once.

In a change of feasts and weekdays, simple,
In a chain of ages, fast and lame,
They weep or laugh - the whole people -
He waits his foes all the same.

He always waits the moment, sudden,
When they'll attack to trumpets blasts…
Ask the tin soldier: "Are you frightened?"
And he'll take aim at you at once.


The little soldier of the tinning
Is prophet of the loss and stress -
His little gun, condemned to killing,
He never looses off his hands.

And I'm to my defender grateful,
Though he predicts the battle's chance.
Ask the tin solder: "Is it painful?"
And he'll take aim at you at once.