Towards South of Lake Baikal

The blinding snow beating on our backs.
The heavy axe I swing slashing at the frozen wood.
The howling wind whips us in our faces.
Work work work! They yell.
What have we done to deserve this hell?
Spies, Fascists, Foreigners
Enemies of the state they declare us.
They damn us to this hell
Working us to death
Leaving us broken, sick, weak, bitter
Our raw humanity torn out of our hearts
Broken souls are all that is left.