It seems to me, at times, that all the soldiers
Who from the bloodied fields never returned,
Were not laid down to rest within the cold earth,
But to a flock of white cranes were transformed.
And from that distant time up to the present
They fly, calling to us with solemn cries.
Is that not why, so often, with such sadness
We stand, unspeaking, gazing at the skies?
Now at the close of day, by thick fog shrouded,
Still flying, flying, in their weary "V."
And I can see a gap in their formation -
This little space, perhaps, is meant for me.
A day will come, and with the flock of white cranes
Into the same blue haze I'll slowly rise
And to you all, whom I have left below me
I will call out, from underneath the skies
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0w4wVh0fJbA