I seem to hear a faint bugle call.
Sense of mission; sense of responsibility
Rows of martyrs' tombs
Like a powerful army.
Prepare for a trip or March
tombstone
A few words
Condensed a period of bonfire years.
Red tomb
Solidified a young life.
Standing in front of the grave
The nobility and the poor are getting smaller.
Life and blood are shocking.
On a peaceful day
We forget easily.
I even forgot where pigeons came from.
Learn to forget and think.
From the smiles of those cold stones
We may become mature.
Standing in front of the grave
I seem to hear the trembling voice of history.
The grave is a glorious chapter.
The pigeon whistle sounded.
That's a bullet whistling.
It was the body that fell.
Immortality is the spirit.
They wrote their own history.
Our history is being written.