My dad used to call us soldiers
Growing up, what is a soldier?
Someone who was born to fight
Some people are born in glasshouses and soft paradises

Others, not so lucky
And then there's us, the fighters
Those who get a taste of both heaven and hell
Paradise and poverty

And have fought to build their own bridge
Across realities, underneath the polished clothes
And silk fabrics dipped in gold
Our hard nature still exists

And at any point when the siren blows
We find ourselves, once again, standing at attention
They can never erase what's in our bones
We feel at home in the warzone