In the labyrinth of time, where shadows dance on walls of mist
In the labyrinth of time, where shadows dance on walls of mist,
An invisible web is woven, finer than the silk thread of destiny,
And Russia, a slumbering bear in the taiga of unspoken dreams, becomes the vessel
Of an unsuspected flow, an underground river of liquid gold and hollow promises.
It's not about subjugation, but a perverse alchemy of money and power,
Where paper empires melt in the crucible of transnational greed,
And taxes, those crumbs of hope for the common man, transform
Into the toxic smoke of an endless war, a ghost haunting the world's conscience.
The United States, an eagle with wings broken by its own grandeur,
Europe, an old lady contemplating her reflection in the shattered mirror of history,
Watch their resources drain through the poisoned arteries of a phantom Russia,
Until they reach the insatiable hands of the elite, the orchestra of this macabre dance.
In the flow of my consciousness, images intertwine like the waves of a turbulent ocean:
Rusty tanks on sunflower fields, false smiles at world summits,
Hungry children in bombed cities and bankers smiling in towers of glass and steel,
All spin in a mad carousel of a war without victory and without end.
The goal is not victory, but the perpetuation of conflict, an eternal fire fueled
By the shattered dreams of coming generations, by the burned hopes of those departing,
An endless war like a Möbius strip, where beginning and end blur
In an infinite loop of suffering, profit, and manipulation on a global scale.
And in this starless night, when the moon hides ashamed of what it sees,
I sit and wonder if there still exists somewhere, in some corner of the universe,
A fragment of humanity untouched by this mire of greed and power,
Or if we are all just pawns in a cosmic game whose meaning escapes us.
Russia, America, Europe - names losing their meaning in the whirlpool of this flow,
Become mere concepts, shadows on the wall of Plato's cave, while the truth,
Harsh and merciless, hides behind the smoke screen of a perpetual war,
A dance of death that will not stop until the last coin is laundered, the last conscience corrupted.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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