No more sub-zero temperatures, nose racing, rubber sliding, cheek sweeping the
gravel ice
No more!
Body shrinking, eyes blinded, dreaming away to mr Palm-tree man
No more!
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It is high time to emigrate, we're refuges in our own territory
It is high time to escape
Do not loose the handmade glory
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Destination: warmth
Blood pumpin', true smiles, already forgot what fixed ice is
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This is my revolution
Me, you, you, we, no utopia
Picking every grain of sand, realize: never freeze again