It seems to me sometimes that our soldiers,
That hadn’t left the bloody battlefields,
In former times weren’t buried in the soils,
But turned into the cranes with whitey wings.
And they until this day, from times are so far,
Are flying high and calling all of us
So that is why so often with the sorrow
We quietly look upwards at the sky.
The tired flight is flying at the welkin,
It’s flying at the sunset, in the mist.
There is a little space inside this system,
But maybe it’s a place that’s right for me.
The day will come when with a flock of cranes
I will be flying in this misty haze,
And I will call out from my skyway
To you, all those, who I left on the land.
It seems to me sometimes that our soldiers,
That hadn’t left the bloody battlefields,
In former times weren’t buried in the soils,
But turned into the cranes with whitey wings.
The cranes
© Copyright: Дмитрий Сергеевич Плотников, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114090108889
Свидетельство о публикации №114090108889
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