They sing of crowns and shining days,
Of walls that never fell,
But marble streets remember names
No bells were left to tell.
Gold was poured where blood ran thin,
And praise was carved in stone—
Yet something listens underneath
Each throne we call our own.
Every banner hides a stain,
Every harvest knows the rain.
Every golden age stands tall
On a silence deep and small,
On bones that learned to hold their breath
So others never saw their death.
We cheer the light, we praise the brave,
But glory sleeps in a quiet grave.
The poets write of peace and law,
Of order born from flame,
But order chose who’d be the cost
And who would bear the name.
No songs for those who vanished first,
No statues for the lost—
The future paid its shining price
And never asked the cost.
History wears a polished face,
But truth is buried in its base.
Every golden age stands tall
On a silence deep and small,
On hands that stopped demanding more
So others could be crowned secure.
We kneel before the light we crave,
Unseeing—who it had to save.
Not all graves are filled with bones,
Some are filled with stolen years,
With swallowed words and broken homes,
With prayers unanswered, soaked in fear.
And time itself becomes the lie
That calls this sacrifice “justified.”
So walk the halls of glory slow,
Feel the chill beneath the glow.
For peace is never purely made—
It’s balanced on what was betrayed.
Remember this when crowns still shine:
A golden age is never kind.
