Black is the soul -- his karma still within in it
Winking like a chilled and dying ember
Dead-frozen in the race yet swearing he shall win it
Pretending Spring, he lives in late December.
Cold is the lie wherein his lost soul dwelleth
Lost below rage's storm and desperate with fear
Violent the breath that in his true heart swelleth
Painted the face he dons for friends so dear.
Simple excuses!! Cover now the bleeding
Desperate inflictions from an ancient war;
Earnest intent will not touch the unheeding
Certain of dying, from a vanished scar!
Taraa!Taraa! The horns of glory warn him!
Strike first or die, your enemy at hand!
Taraa! Taraa! How terror does adorn him!
Failed in sweet living, and afeared to die!
Not about anyone in particular.