North was somewhere years ago and cold: 
       ice locked the people's hearts and made them old. 
South was birth to pleasant lands, but dry: 
       I walked the waters' depths and played my mind. 
East was [bad word] alive in the golden sun: 
       the winds came gently, several heads became one 
in the summertime, though august people sneered... 
       we were at peace, and we cheered 

We walked along, sometimes hand in hand, 
between the thin lines marking sea and sand; 
smiling very peacefully, 
we began to notice that we could be free, 
and we moved together to the West. 

West is where all days shall someday end; 
       where the colours turn from grey to gold, 
       and you can be with the friends. 
And light flakes the golden clouds above: 
       West is Mike and Susie, 
       West is where I love. 

There we shall spend the final days of our lives... 
       tell the same old stories: well, at least we tried. 
So into the West, smiles on our faces, we'll go; 
       oh! yes, and our apologies to those 
       who'll never really know the Way.... 

We're refugees, walking away from the life we've known and loved... 
nothing to do nor say, nowhere to stay; now we are alone. 
We're refugees, carrying all we own in brown bags, tied up with string... 
nothing to think, it doesn't mean a thing, but we'll be happy on our own. 

West is Mike and Susie; 
West is Mike and Susie; 
West is where I love, 
West is refugees' home. 

(London, 1969)