My skin is gold – an armor of pride,
a shell smithed by the raging storm.
Precise angles on my face abide
the rule of nature from which I was born.

My blood runs red and it harbors the fire,
the passion of trust, loyalty and ire:
it is the vessel for my will to stand
against disorder till the bitter end.

But deepest resides the darkness in my soul,
the guilt and shame for a mistaken war;
if I would raise my voice for a better world
they still point at me as evil and disturbed.

Reborn from the ruin to feel their pain
I’m here again, tense under the strain
of imperfection, inferiority;
can’t do what I used to expect of me.

The ties that bind are strong as ever, but
the goal they have bound me to is lost.
The ground is full of graves, me full of doubt;
only this agony can pay the cost.

Oh, I meant well – and still do, a brighter future
to be emerging from the strictness of my rule,
a beacon of vigorous health and culture
will I be always, not a blinded fool.