It was a dream, a gilded fire,
built on whispers, woven higher,
streets of silk, a golden crest,
the hands that took, the hearts oppressed.

They smiled—soft, sweet, serene,
a kingdom carved from borrowed dreams,
but mirrors do not lie for long,
the empire’s face was sharp and strong.

A shatter—silver shards that gleam,
truth cut deeper than the dream,
and in the dust, the voices rose,
the stolen lands, the fractured throne.

No banners left, no songs remain,
the wrong, the right, the ash, the rain.
Time will teach what power hides—
the face of conquest, stripped of pride.

T.A.