A people, shattered—was it their crime
To be born beneath bombs, behind borders
Drawn by empires and etched in ash?
From Gaza’s dust to Ukraine’s bloodied soil,
They carry the weight of promises broken
By those who sip gold from chalices of war.
In America too, cupboards grow bare—
Not from missiles, but from markets that feast
On pink slips and rising shelves,
Where wages shrink while ceilings swell
And rent devours more than bread.
They fill the streets—
Not in protest alone, but in silent hunger,
As jobs vanish into algorithms,
Returned only when the lords of capital decree
That balance must be struck again,
Not in justice—but in optics.
And when they flee,
Their feet blistered with hope,
They find closed harbors and guarded gates.
Their birthrights dismissed,
Their dignity frisked at borders.
Still, they work—
In fields, in kitchens, in factories of rust and neon,
Sending home what little light they can salvage.
Yet the few dine well—
On scarcity they authored, on fear they farmed.
The engines of excess roll on
While the world’s majority waits in line
For mercy, or miracle, or meaning.
But the people?
The people only have the people.
They gather in ruins,
Share dreams like contraband,
And begin again—
Not as kings or kingslayers,
But as fools with faith enough
To walk, again, into the storm.
Courtesy: ChatGPT