Here’s the full English translation — keeping the aggressive, direct, sharp tone and preserving the rhythm, imagery, and philosophical weight:
(First bar)
Yeah… sit down, enlightened one.
Lesson one: shut up and listen.
This isn’t therapy — it’s surgery without anesthesia.
I’m not here to comfort you; I’m here to rip the lies out by the root.
You call yourself a master, but you’ve barely learned how to read the letters.
Let’s see what that so-called wisdom you parade around is really made of.
You arrive wearing a crown of aluminum foil,
thinking you’re an emperor when you’re just an intern of reason;
you preach “manifestation” like some TikTok cult,
begging the universe for what you won’t earn through honest sweat.
Marcus Aurelius wrote only for himself, no cameras rolling —
you film your “stoic routine” just so the algorithm will applaud you;
how ironic, the monk wearing a designer ring,
how cynical, the “wise man” throwing a fit if your ride runs late.
You say: “I control my energy, my vibe, my center,”
yet one comment online dissolves you from the inside out;
Epictetus warned you centuries upon centuries ago:
your body is not yours, nor your health, nor your possessions, nor your time.
Neither is fame, nor your home, nor the “likes”
you chase with pride as if they prove you truly
belong in this world; you cling to what is always slipping away,
and panic when things change, when life doesn’t go your way.
The only thing truly yours is your judgment, your filter, your lens —
and yours is fogged up, filthy, completely dependent
on what others say, what you see, what you’re told;
you demand the world bend to your whims and your expectations,
then shatter like thin glass when rain falls on you,
when the wind shifts direction, or when someone pushes back.
It’s not the event itself that buries you — it’s how you judge it;
not the wound, but the meaning you keep attaching to it.
Let go of that false sense of control, drop the drama, lower your voice —
your mind i
