The old men do not fear to parish,
They would easy, as heroes, die,
But they need not to be so fev'rish:
They'd be never betaken for fight.

In the battles, they die who are younger,
Though never desire to die, ―
Leaving their golden dreams of life's hunger -
Among us, who is older - to fly.

And their soundless squadron fills air,
Through noon's light and nights' darkness it flies…
Shades are black, and the wings - of white fair,
And one can't hide oneself from their eyes