The last songs are assembling Poem by Maria Stepanova

The last songs are assembling,
Soldiers of a ghostly front:
Escaping from surrounded places
A refrain or two make a break for it
Appearing at the rendez-vous
Looking about them, like the hunted.

How stiffly unbending they are
Running water won't soften them now!
How unused they are to company
The words don't form as they ought.
But their elderly, skillful hands
Pass the cartridges round,
And until first light their seeing fingers
Reassemble Kalashnikovs,
They draw, with sharp intake of breath
From wounds, the deeply lodged letters -
And towards morning, avoiding checkpoints,
They enter the sleepless city.

In times of war, they fall silent.
When the muses roar, they fall silent.