Modest Mussorgsky (1839-1891)
Forgotten (words by Golenishchev-Kutuzov)
He found his death in a strange country in a battle with his enemy
But the enemy was defeated by his friends, the friends are happy but he is forgotten, lying in the battlefield, lying alone.
And ravens drink his blood from the fresh wounds and peck his open eyes, and after having had enough, fly home.
And far in his native country a mother is milking her baby.
'Don't cry, son, your father will come back and I will make a nice pie'.
But the father is lying dead, forgotten.