My dad used to call us soldiers Growing up, what is a soldier? Someone who was born to fight Some people are born in glasshouses and soft paradises
Others, not so lucky And then there's us, the fighters Those who get a taste of both heaven and hell Paradise and poverty
And have fought to build their own bridge Across realities, underneath the polished clothes And silk fabrics dipped in gold Our hard nature still exists
And at any point when the siren blows We find ourselves, once again, standing at attention They can never erase what's in our bones We feel at home in the warzone
