They told us to build our lives on sand
to trade our dreams for digits,
to wear a badge of labor
in factories of fading relevance.
They told us to bow,
to clock in,
to chase coins rotting under the weight of their own lies,
while machines sharpened their teeth quietly in the dark.
The old money crumbles
paper ghosts,
debt-soaked promises devoured by Gresham's Law,
where the bad drives out the good,
where the hollow shells replace the gold.
And still
the blind march on,
building tombs they call careers,
planting gardens in poisoned soil,
smiling through the slow theft of their futures.
But some
some of us hear another drum.
Some of us have tasted the wild air.
Some of us refuse the leash of shrinking paychecks
and the counterfeit dreams they peddle.
We are the rebellion:
the ones who choose freedom over comfort,
chaos over cages,
meaning over mechanized numbness.
We know
no machine can dream.
No algorithm can thirst for the infinite.
No code can set a soul on fire.
Let the old world fall.
Let the paper empires burn.
We will build with our own hands
new roads, new rituals, new songs.
We will plant ourselves in the soil of truth,
not the dust of dying systems.
We are not here to serve decay.
We are here to birth what cannot be automated:
courage, beauty, wildness, soul.
Let the future come.
We are free