Under the sun of lonely land,
Among the blasts of heavy winds,
Where even mountains hand in hand
Protect the world of wartime dreams,
There lived a simple man of mould,
Whose sure hands had forged the metal,
Whose fiercely, widely open eyes
Had always grimly scorched like nettle.
He carried the immoral truth
In all his deeds and all his actions.
The man was rough and never smooth,
He never longed for the attraction.
And from the day his mother gave
Him birth and breathed in him the air,
All people hated him the way
That was becoming worse forever.
But day had come one weird morning,
When rays of never sleeping sun
Awoke him like new aborning
And gave him power that could stun.
This power given from above
bestowed upon by magic virtues
the force he never dreamt about
became a gorgeous gift of fortune
Just as the sun was going down,
And sky becoming pink and gold,
The wild shouts in the valley
Made feelings and emotions cold.
Barbaric warriors with weapon
Attacked the village from all sides.
They killed and murdered all the living
And rolled on like enormous tide.
The man of mould was a man of power,
He was supposed to save them all,
And force that he possessed that hour,
Could burst outside and break the mold.
But he decided to stand by watching
How all these heartless people died,
And sweet revenge was roughly scotching
The hatred he had long defied.

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