We need to leave this place
To run from war scorched turf
To sow our salt laden fields
but what effective shackles are words
Our orders bind us, poor foot soldiers
To run is winter and frozen steal
And icy chains wrapped round my neck
to stay is warm blood,
cut from us by children even younger than we are
And burnt skin and blazing dust
I know which path I wish to take
But you did ever hate the cold