We are the ones, who are proud,
The silent ones that don’t make a sound,
Like ghosts we flicker from the shadows,
The shiver that shoots down your marrows.
We are the ones without burning hate,
The professional ones that are never late,
Either in ice or the desert sun,
This is what we call fun.
We are the ones, who never tire,
Even as we look across the mire,
Through endless bogs of dried mud,
We hunt the ones with guilty blood.
We are the ones, who tread the path,
And in deaths face, we do laugh,
In battle, we fight till the end,
And to god, the fallen dead we send.
We are the ones, who you forget,
Whose days and nights are not a test,
You are the ones without a story,
And do not shed blood for peaceful glory.