I think sometimes, that the soldiers,
With bloody not come fields,
Not in this land perished once,
But turned into white cranes.
They hitherto with those distant times
Fly and we hear voices.
Not because so often and so sadly
We fall silent, looking at the sky?
Flies, flies through the sky wedge tired -
Flies in the mist at the end of the day,
And in the ranks there is a small gap -
Perhaps, this is the place for me!
The day will come, and with a flock of cranes
I’ll swim in the same blue-gray haze,
Out of heaven like a bird calling out
All of you who are left on earth.
I think sometimes, that the soldiers,
With bloody not come fields,
Not in this land perished once,
But turned into white cranes.
***
Original georgian lyrics: Rasul Gazmatov
Ttanslation to russian: Naum Grebnev
Music by Yan Frenkel
First performer and autor of idea: Mark Bernes
USSR, 1969
***
Voice & harp:
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