…Obviously translated. The Russian is absolutely entrancing, though.
It seems to me sometimes that all the soldiers,
Who never came back from bloody fields of war,
Were not just laid into the dirt, but turned
Into the cranes of color snow-white.
So they are flying ever since those ages;
They call to us, and may be that is why
We hear their cries, so full of burning sadness
And we stop, silent, gazing at the sky.
The flock is flying, crying, sad and tired,
Through fog, through mist, in quiet light of dawn
And I can see that there is a gap amongst them.
Was it reserved for me? It could be so…
There will be a day and I will fly right there,
There will be a day — and maybe it is close.
And from the skies above I will be sending
The same call for those of you I left below.