Political or humanitarian, who calls?
Who pulls the price when your blood is priced?
No one confesses in the auctioned silence,
as questions drown beneath their scripted noise.
Blurred are borders, scribbled in cheap ink,
where clarity's rephrased blasphemy.
Truth starves as fairytales feast on gods,
as order limps on propaganda.
Priests of policy chant hymns in suits,
prophets get silenced on breaking news.
We sell our eyes out to buy some peace,
and worship chaos as a sacred creed.
Kneel, for, fog is now your faith;
the blur’s religion doesn’t need a god.
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