They counted bodies in the jungle heat,

Reduced the living to a spreadsheet feat.

A number here, a life erased—

The math of war, the art of waste.

Now data points replace the slain,

A threat is born, a fear sustained.

Each metric mined, each pixel sold—

A story of control retold.

From Vietnam’s ghost to Gaza’s dust,

The same machine, the same mistrust.

They count the dead, they log the cries,

But never look them in the eyes.

A drone hums low, a missile flies—

A child’s hand reaches for the skies.

Not in surrender, not in plea—

Just reaching for what used to be.

Data floods the global brain,

But wisdom drowns in its own refrain.

They call it force multiplication—

It’s just more death, more desecration.

The carpet cleaner sweeps the floor,

While empires drone, and bodies soar.

They scan your face, they track your breath—

And call it safety, call it death.

No multiplier of the soul,

Can make the broken spirit whole.

The only count that matters still—

Is love that bends, but does not kill.

So count your breaths, not what they sell—

And break the architecture of their hell.