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in the days of yesteryear
they dropped bombs on our heads
destroying our bodies, our stock and our land
beating us physically into submission
forcing us to surrender to the will of their force
stripping our ground bare of any life
stripping us of our own produce
and this in the same fields that gave us birth
where we once labored and lived in abundance
in order to multiply the abundance of their own seeds
so that we would serve them forever

in the days of today and for the days of tomorrow
they drop leaflets instead of bombs
and promotional messages are pressed before our eyes
screaming their wares as the nectar of the future
wearing us down, beating us into helpless submission in our minds
silently pressing us to surrender to the force of their will
slowly striping us of our own means of production
relinquishing us of our own will to live in our own lands
coerced instead to consume and produce foreign crops in abundance
injecting their alien seeds into us as carriers
that we may ourselves become the land of the produce
the aphids and the ants in twisted union

alien products dreamed up in the virtual larders of the greedy
new delicacies crafted for their rich enjoyment
they call it marketing
and we are deceived and turn on each other as their marketers
but we ourselves are the marketed
and we are the bought and sold
tricked into buying and selling to each other
tricked into buying and selling each other
bewitched into seeking personal pleasure
personal dominance and power
filled with vain visions of a fabricated self
all to alleviate poverty within
and the poverty without
imaginary fruits of illegitimate roots

yes, the bombs still drop
but apparently only softer
at least to the naked ear
it seems there is little more than the sound of the marketplace criers
swarming, filling the networks
and the desperate bleating of the sheep
who are filled, but left forevermore hungry
enlightened, but always kept in darkness
to be found everywhere, yet remaining lost
even to themselves
while those who have, have even more
and those who have not
lose even that which they think they had
obediently celebrating the rise of the new age
and the freedom chants of the death of violence
songs that sing there are more bullets in the air

but in between the lines
hidden deep in the small print
only a flittering flutter can be heard
virtual leaves, like paper leaflets
falling peacefully to the hardened, barren floor

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