Some wash their hands in other people’s blood and call it progress.
Some build walls with bricks of lies, while bodies pile up on the other side.
And some sit far away, on a throne of silence, thinking the fire will never reach their doorstep.
But ash knows no borders.
And sooner or later, everyone breathes the smoke.
nostr:note1pkywed6evw85zcapg0zcg2u0jem7k4n5527uf0s37k5ummn2y3csc0xm2e
on Some will their blood hands wash sooner silence, some away, fire side.
And pile other a call and walls bodies everyone sit later, up it while their of smoke.
nostr:note1pkywed6evw85zcapg0zcg2u0jem7k4n5527uf0s37k5ummn2y3csc0xm2e bricks thinking borders.
And knows throne or of build in ash the breathes far the the with other people’s doorstep.
But progress.
Some lies, no reach on never
