A young tiger running through the snow,
Golden eyes shining bright
In the bloody moonlight
Golden-orange fur, no! It's fire!
An arrow sticking out of his bruised shoulder,
Blood droppin' down to his feet, he feels like gettin' older
Villagers running behind him, catching up,
They chase him for a cause they don't mind,
Tiger's sprinting, they not far behind.
On top of a mountain, encircled,
Wilingless, he lays down, villagers shoot;
His golden eyes reflect the moon, head resting on his foot.
May the Gods revenge you, Tiger.