The Cranes
-Yuri Gulyaev

(The original is in Russian)


Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers,
Which haven't returned from blood's fields,
Haven't lain in our land,
But have turned into white cranes.

From those distant times
They fly and we hear their voices.
Is it because so often and so sadly
We are falling silent and looking into heaven?

The tired crane flock flies, flies through the sky,
Flies in the mist at the end of the day.
And it is a small gap in this order -
Perhaps this place is for me.

The day will come, and in such crane flock
I'll swim in the same blue-gray haze.
Calling out like a bird from the heavens
All of you who are left on earth.

Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers,
Which haven't returned from blood's fields,
Haven't lain in our land,
But have turned into white cranes.