Sometimes, sometimes I think
all those soldiers who battled
on hills and plains,
aren't buried under rows of white crosses
but rather fly the sky as cranes.

They beckon us from times now long forgotten,
their distant voices echo as they fly,
is it these voices that make
us stare and ponder
as our thoughts wander
through the sad, sad sky.

There in the fading shimmer of the sunset
a weary flock of birds heads out to sea.
I see an empty spot in their formation
perhaps that spot is destined just for me.

And when I cross the sky in that formation
soaring through the sunset's distant glow
I'll look upon you, those I've left behind me
and I will call you softly as I go.

Sometimes, sometimes I think
all those soldiers who battled
on hills and plains,
aren't buried under rows of white crosses
but rather fly the sky as cranes.

They beckon us from times now long forgotten
their distant voices echo as they fly,
is it these voices that make
us stare and ponder
as our thoughts wander
through the sad, sad sky.