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The wealth of nations was once rooted
In toil, in grain, in honest trade.
But now—behold the phantom coin,
A paper god by empire made.

No longer tethered to gold or grace,
It floats on faith, or rather fear.
A dollar, born of ink and bluff,
Commands the world to bend and kneel.

This is not free exchange,
But a theft dressed in robes of law.
For when a man prints wealth at will,
What crime is left for thieves to draw?

I warned of excess and imbalance,
Of gluttony masked as growth.
The dollar was to serve the system,
But now the system serves them both.

They weaponized what should be neutral,
Sanctioned bread, and priced the soul.
Where once we built to lift all boats,
Now they sink the ones they stole.

Saddam tried to sell in dinars,
And soon he vanished from the page.
Gaddafi dreamt of gold-backed trades,
And Libya burned in silent rage.

This is not economics—
It is empire in disguise.
Built on suffering and silence,
As the South buries its cries.

I preached the gospel of free markets,
But this… this is not what I meant.
The dollar was to be a symbol,
Not a shackle, not a rent.

They export inflation like warheads,
Destabilize with smiling face.
Then blame the weak for falling,
In a rigged and bitter race.

What product does America export most?
Not steel, not dreams—but debt.
The world buys bills, not blessings—
And pays in blood and sweat.

But systems built on hubris
Will crack like winter glass.
And now the Global South stands tall—
No longer servants of their past.

This is the crime of a dollar—
A paper throne on a mountain of pain.
It bought control, it bought silence,
But it cannot buy respect again.

The day is coming, rising slow,
Like dawn through centuries of dust.
The South will rise, not with rage,
But with memory, vision, trust.

No more tribute, no more chains—
The world turns, as it must.
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