The Wooden Towers of the West
They built their kingdoms not on truth,
But on blood and stolen youth.
Their riches rose on broken backs,
Their glory paved with cold attacks.
Not thought, not craft, nor honest toil,
But looted lands and foreign spoil.
Their minds, not forged in sacred fire,
But fed by greed and false empire.
They called it freedom — masked in chains,
Their system thrives on others' pains.
A house of cards on shifting sand,
Now trembles at time’s final stand.
The South, long trampled, starts to rise,
With ancient fire in modern eyes.
From ashes now the Phoenix sings,
While dying West clips its own wings.
Their towers, wooden — soaked in lies,
Shall crumble beneath awakened skies.
Their money, myths; their power, rust,
Their future turns to ash and dust.
The wealth they hoarded, soaked in sin,
Will not protect the crumbling skin.
For justice walks with time and flame,
And calls each thief by secret name.
Oh Europe, dressed in silken pride,
Soon shall you run, with none to hide.
A refugee in lands once scorned,
By those you mocked, oppressed, and warned.
The beggar’s bowl your fate shall meet,
On once-colonized dusty streets.
The broken bones you once ignored,
Shall rise — now armed — to swing the sword.
No trust shall greet your outstretched hand,
No peace shall dwell within your land.
What’s stolen shall be torn away,
Your heirs shall curse your yesterdays.
A new world order takes its breath,
Beyond your grip, beyond your death.
Where balance reigns, not fraud nor fear —
The end of theft draws ever near.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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