When our cycles get mud choked.

When our engines shriek of pain-

When our bodies are parched,

Our boots weary and the sky is mayday in

rain.

When the plans we made misbehaved.

When the lights have dampened

And the sun is set to glow and go.

The sight of slow burning home fire starts flickering

and we finally know- There’s no time for smoke.

Fear we must not,

For our bloods are hot,

Our hearts are light but-

Our hands are hard,

We are sons of che,

We are sons of satre.

When all hope is lost-

And roads are nowhere to be found.

We realise we are these miniscule little bastards caught in a sinking ship.

We remember we are like wild grass,

The earth will find a way to make us grow.

For we are wild,

For we are children of the wind and the snow.

For we are freedom seekers,

Rebels and much more.