The wind blows keen across the ridge

Black against a charcoal grey

We climb up here by the winding path made so long ago

In the valley below the last few lights

glow just like the embers of a fire

We begin to remember, we begin to remember



We came by the sea and we took the land

We spread out across the plains

And on and on to the mountains

Until there was nothing left to conquer

The sound of chopping trees echoed through the woods

We built the ships and the houses

and the bridges and the fortifications

Until there was nothing left to build with

Now in the silver grey dome of the sky

The birds fly home for winter

And we all come down to the shore and stare across the waves

We've got to get off the island



We carved monuments to the angry gods

We hauled stone across the deserts of our own making

From the standing stones to the villages

To the shining palaces looking out over the water

The soil is growing thin, the yield running low

There's too many of us here, too many of us here

And now ragged ribbons of rain sweep in

As the birds fly home for winter

And we all come down to the shore and stare across the waves

We've got to get off the island