We are the anger of ten thousand nights,
The pride of pioneers leaps from our eyes;
Our hands shape the darkness into weapons,
Our footsteps fall on comfort without mercy.
We point our spears with dew, the blood of night;
Our faces shine like roses in the light.
We stir dark-laden leaves with eager breath,
We are coming, singing, from the silent heath,
We are singing, marching through the frozen grass.
We are tomorrow—stand aside and let us pass.
