They burrowed deep, those kings of coin—armed with gold and delusion, convinced their vaults and oxygen tanks could shield them from reckoning. Their bunkers, built beneath stolen earth, trembled as Heaven refused to be buried.
Up above, we remained: barefoot prophets, broken-hearted mothers, loyal mutts, and the weary who refused to abandon hope. The world paused—not for war or silence—but for Spirit. Light returned in places long swallowed by darkness. The air, raw and unfiltered, carried the voices of the living. We were never alone.
Down below, the rich cowards clutched their ledgered sins. But money couldn’t buy grace. It rotted beside them like fruit kept too long from the sun. And when they emerged, if they ever did, they were strangers to the world they tried to abandon—a world that healed without them.
God took over—not with lightning or floods, but with clarity. No bunker could hide that. Those above ground, we stayed—we saw, we lived. And we remembered.