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In courts of shadow, thrones are made,
Not by virtue—but by blade.
From Persia’s gate to Zion’s hill,
It’s not peace, but will, that breaks the still.

Two lions stare with burning eyes,
Clad in scripture, veiled in lies.
Each speaks of God, yet plays the game—
Where oil is blood and land is fame.

Iran, the scholar cloaked in flame,
Dreams of empires, carved by name.
Old Zoroaster’s ghost still roams,
Through centrifuges and ancient tomes.

Israel, born of ash and fire,
Sworn never again to walk the pyre.
With iron dome and holy claim,
It guards its fear with calculated flame.

They do not hate from hearts alone—
But from the crown, the throne, the stone.
One seeks a bomb to make men bend,
The other strikes first to defend.

This is not war—it is performance.
A dance of threats and reassurance.
Where Gaza bleeds, and children die,
While generals toast and bankers buy.

You speak of genocide or fear?
Look deeper still—the mirror’s near.
They are not enemies by fate—
But twins divided by the gate.

Both claim they fight to guard the just,
Yet both have buried truth in dust.
The citizen is pawn, the nation—mask,
Power thrives in the unasked.

What is peace, if not a tool?
A throne preserved, a nation ruled.
When men of silence lead with fear,
The cries of the poor never reach their ear.

But time—time does not play the fool.
Every empire learns the rule:
What you oppress, becomes your ghost.
What you deny, will haunt you most.

If ever peace is to be born,
It won’t be sung by those war-worn.
But by the ones who plant, not burn—
And know that power, like all things, turns.

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