Winds of turmoil rage daily;

The golden days are a rare sight;

Against the tempest, still I sally;

Never do I, cower in fright.

Swift horses and arrows sharp,

Gather some more, your numbers are few;

Empty words and menace you harp;

Your doom is certain, my blood in lieu.

Fight some more, in the carmine mud;

Cry some more, why the voices abated;

Still in my veins, there is enough blood;

My red lust is not yet sated.

Muster your courage and your weapons grand

Gather ye foes, here I stand, here I stand.