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In the heart of the jungle,
where trees whisper secrets to the wind,
the earth bleeds gold,
and with it,
dreams torn from the hands of the desperate.

Here, shadows move in silence,
not creatures of the night,
but lives unseen—
women with hollow eyes
that hold the weight of too many nights
and not enough mornings.

The air is thick, heavy with promises
whispered by men
whose hands reek of violence
and greed—
gold-streaked hands
that clutch at flesh
as if it were the earth they are mining.

Despair lingers in every corner,
in the broken smiles of the forgotten,
in the laughter that turns to sobs
in the small hours
when darkness swallows the stars whole.

Loneliness stalks like a predator,
its claws raking across fragile dreams,
its breath hot with the stench
of lives reduced to shadows,
of hopes smothered under the weight
of the unyielding soil.

Each day begins with the same question:
how much is a soul worth
when weighed against gold?
How much blood
for a fleeting glint
of sunlight in the dust?

Memories of home—
fields that once held
the promise of fruit and freedom—
haunt the edges of their minds,
replaced by barren landscapes,
by rivers poisoned
and hearts hardened.

And yet,
in the spaces between despair,
there is the faintest trace
of a song long forgotten,
a fragment of a dream
that refuses to be silenced.

But the jungle hums louder.
The machines roar.
The men shout.
And the women walk on,
their bodies bearing
the weight of the world’s greed,
their lives swallowed
by the glittering dust.

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