He wears a good suit
and stands at a podium
with flags behind him.
He talks about peace,
but his hands are already moving
toward the next war.
If he sees money,
he takes it.
Oil, contracts, offshore accounts,
a fortune stacked so high
he cannot see the people beneath it.
If he sees weapons,
he wants more of them.
Missiles, drones, tanks,
and a budget for every one,
paid for by families
who never asked for a war.
He says the word freedom
into the cameras.
He says security. He says justice.
But the words are a costume,
and underneath
is a hunger for control.
Satan does not need horns anymore.
He needs a title,
a microphone,
and people willing to believe him.
He signs the order
from a quiet, warm room.
Far away, a child goes hungry in the dark,
a city turns to dust,
and he calls it strategy.
He loves the game of war
because war makes him powerful.
Every crisis gives him more authority.
Every grave is one more reason
to say, trust me, I will protect you.
There is no pity in him.
The dead are numbers.
The suffering are statistics.
He counts his winnings
while the world counts its losses.
His crown is not gold.
It is made of debt, of ash,
of other people\'s grief.
And he wears it proudly,
smiling for the photograph.
When a leader loves power
more than he loves his people,
he becomes the devil\'s work,
and the whole earth
pays the price in blood.