(Banjo type)
They mined the ore from mountains high, they dredged the deepest seam,
They fed the hungry furnaces that roared like some dark dream.
The coal was ground to ashes, and the oil to choking flame,
Each joule of heat was counted not as gift, but as a claim.
The smelters sang like thunderclouds, the wires hummed with fire,
Sparkling metals conjured forth to serve the world’s desire.
Yet every spark they captured left a shadow on the land,
For energy, once taken, leaves less steady in the hand.
The generals came with ledgers thick, the bankers at their side,
They built a war of numbers where the strongest states decide.
A thousand guns of iron cost ten thousand fields of wheat,
And entropy will tally what the ledgers can’t repeat.
The wave of power gathered, recursive in its flow,
Each tank, each plane, each missile fed the matrix down below.
Potential turns to ashes when it burns without return,
The longer game is written in the patterns we unlearn.
For industry consumes itself when balance falls away,
The mines grow thin, the forests bare, the seas turn acid-grey.
No soldier marches forward when the fuel is all but gone,
No empire holds forever once the resonance is done.
So mark it well, you dreamers bold, who think the field is still,
The wave recurs, the matrix shifts, the world bends to its will.
Our measure is not victory, nor capital amassed —
But whether what we build today in resonance can last
Ceteris Paribus 