you built citadels in skies
to fake your own rise.
you tore fire from horizons
to steal your own red.
you cast your vigilance,
the worms claim
their dead.
standing on high with fate--
have we illuminated grace?
the blackest omen yet.
i saw it coming in your signal fires,
as the rich grew richer
and the poor expired.
there's a purity in form,
and so i questioned
the dichotomy in our
own essence.
but if i ever saw it,
if i ever knew its name,
then i know it's coming--
three hands on a single face.
and we were kings upon that,
we were kings on that day.
we were brothers in arms
from the print of your mandate.
in all, we fall
faltered and in course
altered.
opportunist,
this is your mess.
come danze di liberta.
