Sometimes it seems to me that soldiers,
while fighting on the battlefields did not die
No longer they lie under the cold ground
but are white storks flying free across the sky.
They're still there from wars long ago forgotten,
still flying there, I hear their mournful cries
Is that why I'm often feeling so sad
and silent while looking at the skies?
Forever flying, flying the tired skeme
Through the fog they make their weary way
And there whithin the wedge a small space
It may be a place for me one day.
And amongst the other storks you'll see me sometimes,
gliding like a ghost, you'll hear the sound
of me calling like a bird under the grey clouds
to all of you I left upon the ground.