You count your gold like monks count prayer,
each market tick a whispered care.
While others march through smoke and flame,
you sit and polish up your gain.
Your warehouses stretch to the sky,
your workers never question why.
Another company, another deal,
while cannons rust and soldiers kneel.
We built Warera not for peace,
not for endless grain increase.
Not to spend our final days
refreshing eco spreadsheets’ haze.
The banners call, the borders shake,
alliances bend, republics break.
Yet still you chase one more upgrade,
a merchant king too scared to raid.
You say, “Just wait, one more big run.”
But wars are fought, not overdone.
A nation forged in blood and dirt
cannot survive on profit’s flirt.
I do not ask you to die in vain,
nor throw yourself beneath the train.
I ask one thing: unsheathe the blade,
be more than numbers that you made.
For what is wealth when servers close?
What glory blooms where no fight grows?
Your gold will fade, your stocks decay,
but battle screenshots live for aye.
So leave the factories for a night,
equip your gear and join the fight.
The enemy will never care
how strong your eco graph was there.
note: this is ai generated.