Birds bolt as bells blast the silence
The sun vaults rays casting shadows
Past is the time where high temples were built
They are encircled by Icarian guilt
Gilded gold lasted as an icon
Not of beauty, not of rising dawn
On golden watches, golden bags, golden microns
That gold for pawns of the authoritarian khan
Ferro-concrete furiously spawns in cadence
Faith dubiously withdraws; no balance
Our temples are our homes
Always larger on the outside
Whilst we rely on loans
With our backs against the sun
Which provides with no qualms
Light and shadow with blind benevolence
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