Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers
From the bloody fields that didn’t come
Not once they fell into our land,
And turned into white cranes.
They are still from the time of those distant
They fly and give us voices.
Not because it’s so often and sad
Are we silent while looking to heaven?
A wedge flies across the sky, tired
Flying in the fog at the end of the day
And in that order there is a small gap,
Maybe this place is for me.
The day will come, and with the crane flock
I will swim in the same gray haze,
From the sky, calling out like a bird
All of you whom I left on earth.
Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers
From the bloody fields that didn’t come,
Not once they fell into our land,
And turned into white cranes ...
|
| Sometimes I feel like the soldiers,
Who never returned from the bloodied fields,
Aren't perished in our earth,
But turned into white cranes
Since those long gone times until today
They fly and give us signs, so we can hear them.
Isn't this why so frequently and sorrowfully
We fall silent, watching the sky?
A tired flock is flying, flying up in the sky,
Through the fog, at the end of the day.
And among them there's a small gap,
Perhaps that's the place for me
The day will come when together with the cranes
I will float in that same blue-gray mist,
With a bird's hailing out of the heavens,
Calling on all of you, whom I've had left down on earth.
Sometimes I feel like the soldiers,
Who never returned from the bloodied fields,
Aren't perished in our earth,
But turned into white cranes
|