Flight of the White Cranes

At times I think that soldiers gone in battle,
Who fell on grass like drops of crimson rain,
Are not asleep beneath the trees or nettles,
But turned into those white majestic cranes…

And to this day – since times both late and distant
They fly, saluting, sending us their cries,
Oh, could it be – ‘tis why we stop and listen
And look up, said and silent, to the skies?

They fly and fly, that flock of travelers tired,
They fly and greet the fog of passing day,
But look! I see a slot, they’re not entire –
Perhaps it’s mine, to join and be away.

A day will come: I’ll soar into the clouds,
I’ll drift into the grey and bluish fog
And I’ll salute, so crane-like, sad and loud,
All those I left behind in earthly fuss….

At times I think that soldiers gone in battle,
Who fell on grass like drops of crimson rain,
Are not asleep beneath the trees or nettles,
But turned into those white majestic cranes…