In a theater of glass we sit—
the world a script of make‑believe,
where thoughts are molded like soft clay,
shaped to fit the hands that pull the strings.

 

Behind the curtain, unseen tycoons whisper,
their whims a chorus that feeds the hungry screens;
news, adverts, heroic myths—
each line a profit, each pause a profit,
and we, the unwitting actors, take our bows
without a question, without dissent.

 

Chaos wears a mask of peace,
its laughter muffled by the roar of manufactured war,
while we, taught to applaud, judge the scene
by the scripts that dictate our reactions—
slaves to the echo of a thousand drums,
servants to shadows that call themselves lords.

 

Maps turn upside‑down, borders blur,
reality drips into a kaleidoscope of half‑truths,
the perfect picture painted in shades of anonymity,
leading us down corridors haunted by monsters
crafted by our own complacent imagination.

 

We worship gods of data, fear specters of code,
our temples now pixels, our prayers buttoned‑clicks,
and the monsters that stalk us are born of the very wires
that promise connection yet tighten their grip.

 

Awake—let the first light break the filigree veil,
let breath return to the wild places where rivers sang
before headlines fell like rain.
Pull the mind from the silken cage,
feel the earth’s pulse, the honest wind,
and rebuild a world where truth is not a product
but a seed we tend, together, in the open.

 

Only then will the night dissolve, and we—
human, un‑scripted, un‑sold—
step forward into the quiet miracle of being.