It seems to me sometimes that soldiers,
Who never came from bloody fields,
Did not lie down in our land once,
But turned into white cranes.
They fly to this time from the times of those old
And give us voices.
Not because so often and sadly
We are silent,
looking at the sky.
Flies in the fog at the end of the day.
And in that line there is a small gap,
Maybe this place for me
Will become a day of a crane flock.
I will sail in the same gray fog,
From under the sky, calling out to the birds,
It
seems to me sometimes that soldiers,
Who never came from bloody fields,
Did not lie down in our land once,
But turned into white cranes.
