Pianist. The Warsaw diaries (№ 391275)

A thin, weak voice they sang about a young soldier wounded on the battlefield, dying all alone and calling: "Mother!" But mom's not around. It is far and not know that the son dies, it shakes only mother earth, soothing rustle of trees and herbs: "Sleep, son, sleep, my love!", and instead of the cross of merit to the dead chest falls from the tree the flower is its only reward.