Early spring day the sun is going
To set at the western mountain ridges
And the tombstones are lining up and greyly shining
On the sky a bird is whirling with his remiges.
Far away, beside the entrance
Gate, the many flags are waving
On the flagpoles and the statues are erected for remembrance.
A short day, slowly the darkness is drawing.
On the big tree, a crow make sounds, caw and caw
As if he try to appeal to the live.
On the shaking bough, he’s grasping tightly by his paw.
And the otherworld not long, he warns to the live.
The artificial flowers are picked by the tombstones,
On the yellow lawn, the more they’re splendid
The more they’re looked lonely, on this divine zones,
But the Congress’s strife for the profit is not ended.