Chronicles of the Thiefdom

They rise in suits, not in truth, Whispering honey into the ears of youth. They promise bread, and break it twice — Then sell the crumbs at triple price. These are the kings without a crown, Their thrones built on a broken town. They speak of peace with sharpened knives, While trading bombs for children’s lives. Parliaments of puppets sway, Dancing lies in grand display. They sign their names in blood and oil, Then toast their sins with peasant toil. They steal not once, but every breath — From schools, from homes, from limbs of death. And when the people cry for aid, They build a wall and call it “trade.” But the soil remembers every scar. The stars record who these men are. For thrones are rented, not divine — And justice drinks a patient wine. A time will come — not far, but near — When truth will no longer cower in fear. No flags, no laws, no gilded rule — Just hearts awake, and none to fool.