They built their towers, high and grand,
On broken backs, on stolen land.
With silver tongues and hollow eyes,
They fed the world their painted lies.
Each handshake hid a blade inside,
Each promise made, a truth denied.
They climbed atop the bones of men,
Yet feared the fall—again, again.
They called it strength to tear apart,
To carve the world with selfish art.
But in their halls, so cold and bright,
No love remained, no warmth, no light.
For trust was lost, and joy was thin,
No one to call an honest friend.
Their riches swelled, yet hearts decayed,
Their laughter forced, their smiles frayed.
And when the final trumpets cried,
The empire stood—but none inside.
For wealth is dust, and