Who are they?

Who are they? Under the shadow-filled sky, where the stars are only question marks, they weave invisible webs, devaluing our dreams of gold and silver, they hold us in chains of invisible debt, like puppets in a sad theater, they tax us until we fall to our knees, silently submitting to the yoke, poisoning our food and calling it progress, a dance of bitter illusion. Our history becomes a rewritten parchment, where truth is a lost ghost, politicians are puppets dancing to the orders of an unseen conductor, wars are manufactured in workshops of gold and blood, where profits flow from both sides, a river of dirty silver, they push division from the depths of our soul, eroding our morality. They control the echo of the media, dictating what we can and cannot say, flooding nations with waves of strangers who do not share our stars, mocking tradition, yet worshiping at an altar of corruption that laughs in the shadows, calling themselves oppressed while pulling the strings of the world, the system is arranged so we never win, an endless wheel. And thus, they destroy our civilization with unseen hands, while we dream of a land unraveling in the moonlight, a melancholic song floating among the ruins of a forgotten empire, this is what it is, a dance of shadows, a universe of silence and sighs.