Behold the altar, black as night,
Where liberty burns in the Devil’s light.
The gold-flecked smoke ascends the skies,
While freedoms drown in gilded lies.

The priest of profit lifts his hand,
“Come, kneel before the branded land!
Your worth is priced, your soul is weighed,
By what you’ve bought, and what you’ve paid.”

O hollow mass, whose hymns are sung,
By plastic tongues on iron lungs.
They chant of deals, of wealth divine,
While shadows stretch from neon shrines.

See how the cities crumble slow,
As towers rise where rivers flow.
The lambs consume; the wolves grow fat,
And grind the earth to dust for that.

No revolution stirs this crowd,
Their thoughts are trapped, their voices loud—
But only loud with empty cheer,
A choir of sheep, both deaf and near.

The sky once rang with sacred cries,
Now drones with ads and pixel lies.
What Blake called “mills” now churn unseen,
They harvest dreams through glowing screens.

And here we stand, our hearts resigned,
Our minds enslaved, our wills confined.
For each new gadget, sale, or spree,
We trade the truth for apathy.

Yet in the embers, still remains,
A seed of hope amid the chains.
For irony is sharp as steel,
And truth, when seen, begins to heal.

What if this madness masks a jest?
A riddle placed for us to test?
The path is clear—tear down the veil,
Let wolves no longer feast on sale.

Rise up, ye lions, claim the earth!
Let justice flame, let life rebirth!
No God shall save what we must mend,
No freedom comes we do not defend.