What god do you serve, wielders of ruin?
What altar demands this ceaseless undoing?
You carve the earth with your machines,
Blood for oil, and death for dreams.
Do you hear it—the screaming ground,
As your bombs split the silence, pound for pound?
Do you see it—the children’s eyes,
Hollowed out by your fire-lit skies?
You, the cowards in gilded halls,
Who trade in bodies and shatter walls,
You speak of honor, of righteous cause,
But your truth is filth, your justice claws.
Your borders are lines, drawn in vain,
By hands that profit from others' pain.
You sell the lie, the patriotic fever,
While soldiers bleed to feed the deceiver.
What will you say when the earth strikes back?
When the seas rise up and the skies turn black?
When the forests choke and the deserts spread,
Will your gold save you from the dead?
You poison the soil and call it fate,
You murder peace and call it great.
But listen close, to the rising roar—
It’s not the drums of your godless war.
It’s the voices of those who will not die,
Who defy your greed, who spit at the sky.
The earth herself, she howls, she screams,
Her vengeance will shatter your cruelest schemes.
Your power is glass, your empire frail;
The winds will rise, the truth prevail.
So tremble now, in your ivory tower—
The world will burn, but not by your power.
War’s architects, hear this decree:
The earth will have justice, and it won’t bow to thee

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