The land is a market,

but who owns the stall?

The traders have vanished,

but the thieves stand tall.

---

They sell the rain,

they sell the road,

they sell the trees

where ancestors strode.

---

They sell the fire,

they sell the clay,

they sell the dawn

before it turns to day.

---

And the young?

They flee like startled birds,

their wings beating against foreign winds,

carrying with them songs

that once made the land dance.

---

Where are the roads?

Eaten by potholes.

Where are the schools?

Buried in dust.

Where are the laws?

Folded in a briefcase,

carried across the sea

where puppeteers pull the strings.

---

The West whispers,

and the rulers bow.

The East knocks,

and they sign away tomorrow.

---

But the land remembers.

The wind carries stories of betrayal.

The rivers murmur the names of thieves.

One day, the drums will call again.

One day, the market will

belong to the people

once more.