Stalingrad Railway Station, Childrens round dance. Alexey Beshtau.
Lets join hands, friends! Like the children of Stalingrad. The black horde is coming to us, the border is not an obstacle! Under the roar of bombs and the whistle of bullets, That dance was spinning, But the Junkers was aiming exactly at zero - it did not stop... Everything was burning, but their hearts were still holding hands, And the Germans were beating out of the window And trying to break it... The train station, shot through the ruins, was smoking, But the childrens dance was not apart, It merged more closely with each other. Time passes and again the Fragments are at the station, And I want to take those children off, Send them to their mothers in the hall. Lets join hands, friends! Lets stand next to each other with our hearts, Because the ”Childrens Round Dance” did not bow to the shells for nothing!
One of the symbols of the destroyed Stalingrad, the fountain ”Childrens Round Dance”, an idea arose in my head to connect, through time and generation, the memories of a front-line soldier.
Lets join hands, friends! Like the children of Stalingrad. The black horde is coming to us, the border is not an obstacle! Under the roar of bombs and the whistle of bullets, That dance was spinning, But the Junkers was aiming exactly at zero - it did not stop... Everything was burning, but their hearts were still holding hands, And the Germans were beating out of the window And trying to break it... The train station, shot through the ruins, was smoking, But the childrens dance was not apart, It merged more closely with each other. Time passes and again the Fragments are at the station, And I want to take those children off, Send them to their mothers in the hall. Lets join hands, friends! Lets stand next to each other with our hearts, Because the ”Childrens Round Dance” did not bow to the shells for nothing!
One of the symbols of the destroyed Stalingrad, the fountain ”Childrens Round Dance”, an idea arose in my head to connect, through time and generation, the memories of a front-line soldier.