The smuggler tip-toes on the border
Anxiously looking over his shoulder
Wrapped up in white sheets, he's almost unseen
As he crosses the fields and the frozen stream
The wind is blowing through his bones
The cold air breath in chills his soul
"I'll be home tonight
Drinking wine by the fireside"
The soldier marches in the row
His eyes upon the footsteps in the snow
The slimy uniform is sticky with sweat
A tiny dot in the landscape creeping ahead
The wind bents down the trees with heavy strokes
The cold air he breath out is turning to smoke
"I'll be home tonight
Drinking wine by the fireside"