Destruction comes cloaked in brief shadows,
fickle wisdom whispers from ruined walls.
Liberals, architects of delicate sympathies,
weave tapestries torn by their own threads.
They proffer hands, trembling not with strength,
but with the fevers of surrogate salvation,
sowing peace not by growth but weightless gifts,
casting their nets where roots once anchored.
While fields wither beneath this gentle torrent,
the world starves for the honesty of struggle.
A balance turned brittle in borrowed echoes,
light flickers faint when fires aren’t kindled.
To rebuild, one must taste ash\'s flavor,
to heal, endure the thorn and its sting,
worth rises best from sweat, not fiction’s song,
a truth unseen by those who shield eyes.