They took the rebel,
with dirt on his feet
and fire in his voice,
and dressed him in silk,
floating
like some sainted mannequin
in Saint-Tropez.

He flipped tables —
now they kneel at golden ones.
He fed the poor —
now they feed on gold-plated prayers.
He walked with ****** and thieves —
now they polish marble for the pious.

He healed on the Sabbath
just to make a point.
Told the rich,
“Give it all away.”
He spat truth like lightning
and stood firm in storms.

But they couldn’t control that man.
So they made him God.
Not to lift him —
but to bury him in worship.
Because if he’s God,
you don’t have to follow —
just bow.

They crowned him
to silence him.
Sanitized the sweat,
bleached the blood,
branded the rebel
as royalty.

But I remember the man —
not the myth.
I see the dust,
the rage,
the truth that burned in his chest.

And I say:
bring back the fire.
Let him walk barefoot
into temples again.