A friar raised a blade of thought
And cut what centuries had wrought.
The wound healed clean. The scar remains:
Truth needs no ornamental chains.

The Church sold heaven by the pound.
Then plague crept in without a sound—
No prayer nor God could stop the rot.
The dying asked: what had they wrought?

Now children dig where cobalt gleams,
Their lungs fill with our electric dreams.
New gods, same trick: the cross debased
By contracts inked in toxic waste.

New liturgies: the earnings thrall,
The gospel of the fiscal call.
Efficiency—a gilded noose
We bless, hang, gut—cut it loose.

What will we leave? A charred, scarred world,
Data centers where brimstone storms swirl.
No plague this time. No God to blame.
Just us, the ledger, and hell’s flame.

Our food still burns before it’s eaten—
Diesel-soaked, profit-beaten.
Each meal a debt, each bite a cost.
We swallow what the world has lost.

The scalpel cuts. The bill arrives.
We price the dying. We auction lives.
Prevention cheaper than the knife—
But profit feeds on shortened life.

Suppose we stripped the world to bone,
Surrendered the greed we’ve always known.
No creed, no blade, no profit won—
Just breath, soil, eternal sun.

So let us set the razor down,
Unsimplify, unlearn the crown
Of mastery we thought we’d won—
And learn to love, not overcome.