Psalm from a Roofless World

(A Romantic Satire on Power and the Colonization of
Humanity)

By: Anna Keiko

–

In October’s haze of dust and bullets,
I saw homes in Gaza crumble—
not by storms, not by quakes,
but by hands that never learned
to touch without destruction.

I—a painter of dreams and verses—
tried to sketch houses from scattered prayers,
to color hope atop silent ruins
with the hues of blood that never dried.
But alas, even my canvas must now kneel
before algorithms and smart bombs.

My tears weren’t of love,
but bile storms from arms factories.
I wrote poems with fury,
yet my stanzas were muted by stock prices.
Every metaphor defeated by press conferences,
each anti-war poem reduced to a trending hashtag
before an ad for cologne took its place.

We live in a synthetic symphony—
where human chords are bought by capital,
arranged by machines,
and played by half-robots
smiling politely in a curated dystopia.

“All men are created equal,” Rousseau once claimed,
but now, even infants need QR codes
just to cry in sterilized hospitals.
And the Social Contract? Oh, that old book
now lines the boardroom tables of billionaires.

Capital wears a lovely face these days,
dressed in diplomacy, perfumed in tech,
flowing like rivers through chips and codes.
It doesn’t scream, nor weep—
it simply buys everything… even God.

The weak now learn to love collapse,
like the poor who romance the lottery.
They clutch rubble and whisper:
“Perhaps this is love—
when the world tears down your home,
yet you still hope the sky will stay.”

But don’t mistake me—
this is not a lamentation of the lazy.
This is an honest elegy
from within the jungle law of society.
For in our so-called progress,
the tigers wear neckties,
and the lambs still pray
while queuing to be taxed or slaughtered.

I know now:
civilization is not about ethics,
but efficiency and algorithmic grace.
And man? No longer a sovereign subject,
but data—
with emotions on weekend discount.

Yet let me keep writing,
not to change the world,
but to light a small candle
amid the ruins of reason and Wall Street.
For maybe—just maybe—in poetry,
a man can still stand naked
and say:
“I am not a number. I am a wound
yearning to be loved.”

Shanghai,2025

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