We lift up our sword of valor, up high it goes.
Again we lift it up, we raise it high cos as they say the third time is the charm.
We lift, we lift and we lift.
Our hands are tired but still we lift.
Our enemies come cutting through the jungle, we are on the pride rock but our ego they mush on the floor.
They separate us, they vanquish us into exile, where we speak and never understood.
Our works are never of our minds we know nothing cos it’s a strange land.
But on our lands they dance,
They dance till they break each and every bone in them to suite the beats that emanate from the drums of our land.
Their hair flies through the sky as they dance, they dance till they hurt themselves.
But I ask does victory bring pain? Does excitement hurt, does it?
So they keep on dancing and dancing, would they ever stop.
Would they ever pause and say let’s bring them back, would they?
But we come, we come to dance with them, to dance with them with dagger in arms,
We dance till they lose their senses then we hit them in the guts,
And with each thrust we feel the pain, the pain of victory.
This is our land, our pride is our rock and we have come to take it back. But we wake and it is just a dream, a dream in exile.