You slaughter your child, crushing his fragile bones with your own hands. Your wars, trade lives like coins for lines on maps, for power, for money, painting the world in shades of sorrow. Your whispers ignite fires, burning homes and hope alike, burning the future.

You enslave those you should protect, chaining freedom with iron hands, indifferent to the tears of your slaves, for a cup of honey. You fight those who only want to love because you despise the colors of their eyes. You sit enthroned on lies, cut through the fabric of trust, blind to the abyss you have created.

You could dance with butterflies in the morning sun, fly over blue seas, over lands and rivers, play with birds and bees. Taste their honey, their joy. Instead, you choose shadows, breeding grounds for fear and betrayal, where the air is thick with the cries of the lost and the broken.