These barracks don’t favor civilians, only those who deal with bullets. We fight the hard way-we face guns and bombs empty handed. The armory is your heart, and the will to survive is the only weapon you got.
We are bred here, in these streets, farther from Eden and closer to the realities, of the curses on adam’s sins. We toil and sweat for every mint we need. But whatever the hardship, remember, we still don’t retreat.
The sun here don’t favor people. We survive because we have grown shells. Well, no surprise, Fire hardens clay, and we live close to hell. Our stomachs are part of the adaptation, we can go hungry for days but work till night. The steam burning inside is the fuel.
In our register, there is no word for give-up. Hard times have made the vocabulary short. Our dictionary is published in war times-those times where life is the only spear. In these kinds of wars, you loose words that express fear.
Our souls wears khaki, we will never retire. No matter what becomes of the battle of class. Whether we cross the seas, or we remain in the barracks;
We remain the soldiers of the streets.