Robots Are Dix

The first thing they take from a conquered people is not their weapons it is their songs. the weapons are nothing. a man who still sings will make new weapons by morning

God buries the gold in the filth and this is not cruelty it is selection. He asks - how badly do you want it. badly enough to kneel in what others step over. badly enough to touch what the clean men will not name. and the poor stay poor because they want clean gold, gold that arrives without shame, and there is no such gold, there never was. the pearl comes from the wound in the oyster. the wine comes from the crushed and broken grape. the bread comes from the buried wheat that agreed to die. everything precious passes through disgust, through decay, through the place where pride cannot breathe - and you stand at the edge wanting the treasure but not the grave, wanting resurrection but not the cross, wanting the kingdom while refusing the dirt it grows in. the saint kneels where the coward will not look. this is law. go lower. go where your pride screams no. the way up is down the way out is through and your hands are still clean which is why they are still empty