Island

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