They came, the marauders, from out of the night
Burning, looting and setting our homes alight

We were murdered in our sleep and slaughtered in our beds
Our women-folk misused and then left for dead

But that was yesterday, now it's time to bury our folk
The pain inside is like a knife, is this some mad god's joke?

We will look to our knives and any sharp objects that we can find.
For tonight the farmers will become hunters with death burned into our minds.

For what can replace that empty space where our loved ones used to be.
But the blood of our enemies, flowing over the land and into the sea?