The wind cries greed and is

growing into a devastating storm

as it blows the flames towards 

a hill that once used to be an island

before imported roots dried out the river

The trees whisper corruption while 

their ancestors arrive at a sawmill 

Paper barons weighing their gold and

the way they’re ripping the ark of its timber 

makes bending branches stop to quiver

Politicians shout economic growth and

are designing a heaven for the elite

Meanwhile preparing for the kill of

all that’s free and naturally theirs, who are

depending on charity from a fake almsgiver

Slaves believing to be free and

part of a superior movement that

will lead them to daily life fortune

are helping their populist masters

cutting down the only trees capable to deliver

*****