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—A Poem for the Reckoning

You rulers of cold castles,
With pens that write in blood—
You sail on seas of sorrow,
Feeding empires with the mud
Of broken nations, broken backs,
Broken dreams beneath your tracks.
You dress in suits of polished lies,
But justice sees through every crack.

You preach peace, yet profit war,
Leave Africa wounded, bruised, and poor.
You take her gold, her diamond light,
Then call her children dark as night.
But night remembers every star,
And pain becomes a prophet’s scar.
You think the South won’t rise again?
The wind is whispering: think again.

You flood our lands with aid and debt,
You play the game, the same old set—
Divide, deceive, destabilize,
Then blame the weak for all your lies.
But history is not a tale you own,
And seeds of truth have overgrown
Your walls of silence, thick with sin—
The age of reckoning shall begin.

You build your riches on our bones,
Then cry when we reclaim our thrones.
You fear the fire that justice brings—
But we are not your broken things.
We are the children of the earth,
The sons and daughters of rebirth.
Our time is coming, step by step—
We’ve tasted death, and nothing’s left
To lose but chains and stolen names—
We’ve seen through all your wicked games.

You claim to civilize the rest,
While you enslave the world’s oppressed.
But now the veil is torn apart—
And every soul holds truth at heart.
You cannot hide in conference halls,
Your pride will shatter with your walls.
Your reign was built on blood and fear—
But every echo says: it's near.

The day when stars will fall like rain,
And every ghost you’ve birthed in pain
Shall rise and point a trembling hand—
To mark your legacy in sand.
The time when Europe’s mask will slip,
When power’s poisoned wine you'll sip.
You mocked the world, but now you see—
The world is waking. Finally.

So hear these words, not born of hate,
But prophecy you can’t escape:
That every child you left to die
Will rise and ask the heavens why.
And justice, dressed in silence long,
Will sing her last, relentless song.

And Babylon shall fall, not loud—
But slow, beneath the grieving crowd.
For what you sow is what you reap—
And truth, once woken, does not sleep.
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