The empire cast a heavy, iron shade
On distant soil where suns would rise and fade,
Through Asian valleys, African terrain,
A global canvas bound by one tight rein.
But in the quiet of the stable stalls,
A silent tremor shook the manor walls;
The beasts aligned, a disciplined command,
To map the boundaries of a sovereign land.
They built their rules, a clean and conscious code,
To lift the burden of the crushing load.
They turned the wheel, the windmill started spinning,
A bright, autonomous, and fresh beginning.
For well-being was not a human right alone—
The creatures sought a culture of their own,
To judge the righteous from the cruel deed,
And harvest freedom from the soil of greed.
Yet power is a slow and creeping stain,
That blurs the lines of struggle and of pain.
Though Jones was cast into the outer night,
The pigs began to mimic human might.
The very beasts who swore to break the crown,
Began to look like those they had cast down;
For truth is sharp, and history will tell:
The human triumph rose as shadows fell.
The standalone domains of man remained,
With specialized mechanics, unchained.
The book is closed, the bitter truth unfurled:
Each nation seeks its own separate world.
From deep upheaval and the battle’s smoke,
The dream of peace survives the broken yoke—
A warning carved in stone, and clear to see:
That power binds, but justice sets us free.
