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.