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