� �It seems to me sometimes, that the soldiers, �who didn't come from the bloody fields, �didn't lie down in our land once, �but turned into white cranes. �Since those distant times, �they fly and give us their voices. �Not because it's so often and sad, �we keep silent, looking at the sky. �A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a... �A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a... �Flies, flies, towards the sky �Flies in the fog at the end of a day �And in that stream there is a small gap �Maybe this place is for me �The day will come with a flock of cranes �I will swim in the same gray fog �And from under the sky I will call out to the birds �All of you who I will leave on earth �A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a... �Sometimes it seems to me that soldiers �Who didn't come from bloody fields �Didn't go to our land �But turned into white cranes �A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a... �Music fades away...