They print their gods on linen skins and bow to ink like bloods not real: trade breathe for debt for mere sins a life enslaved by a spinning wheel a name, a brand and now its fate the Earth was ours now we raise kingdoms built on paper trust we chased the least and lost the most they build their god from ash and steel then bleed the sky to feed the flame of the petrodollar and they preach that pain is a fairer deal than walking free without a name. They dress in crowns of shattered bone and burn the child to save the throne..... one voice one life what is it worth? less than a trinket pulled from earth? We kill for coin we die for dust. The truth invoked: not a beast nor a blame what if we looked and saw it clear?: The paper, the gold, the flag, the fear..what if the real was always near.