It seems to me sometimes that all the soldiers,
Who never came from battles of the war,
Were not just laid into the dirt, but
Were turned into the cranes as white as snow.

So they are flying ever since those ages.
They call for us and may be that is why
The voice of them is full of burning sadness
And we keep silence looking into sky.

The flock of cranes is flying slow and sadly
Through colors of a sundown. I can see
That there is a gap between them, may be
It is a spot that's meant, my friend, for me.

There will be day and I will fly right there,
There will be day and may be it is close.
And from the skies above I will be sending
The voice for those I loved and left on earth.