Boris Anisimow

The white cranes (Audio)

Sometimes it seems to me each fallen soldier
who never came back home from fields of gore
in fact did never perish as they told you
but turned into a crane as white as snow (fine)

And ever since those days in their due season 
we've seen them soaring high across the sky,
with distant voices giving us a reason 
to stand in tears and watch them flying by.


A wedge of cranes is fading in the distance,
so far away I can no longer see 
When I run out of days of my existence
I hope those cranes will find a gap for me.

That I may soar above my pain and anguish 
and join their ranks like many years ago, 
recalling all their names in my new language
and names of those whom I have left below.


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