The Paper God Shall Fall
They trade the Earth for ink-stained slips,
Colored paper, kissed by greed’s dry lips.
They call it wealth — this printed lie,
While children in slums are born to die.
Steel towers rise on broken backs,
Their riches built on hunger’s tracks.
The land is sold, the seeds are burned,
And famine profits are well-earned.
They toss good bread into the sea,
So scarcity seems like destiny.
A game of numbers, cold and sly —
Where markets rule and humans die.
Capital, the golden cage,
Turns every hope into a wage.
You bleed, they count; you cry, they smile —
The devil's been wearing a suit all the while.
But from the ashes of the South,
A wind is rising, fierce in mouth.
Not just protest, but birth pains roar —
Of systems that shall rule no more.
For nothing made by blood and theft
Can stand when justice has nothing left.
The workers know. The mothers grieve.
The Earth remembers. And will not forgive.
So let the markets quake with fear —
The end they mocked is drawing near.
This gospel comes with hammered hands:
No empire built on bones still stands.
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