i've been in china for two weeks for tourism. This is what i like to tell to america and trump.
Beneath the silent hills of Xi’an, in the bowels of the earth, the stone army of the First Emperor awakens. A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand warriors carved from rock rise from their millennia-old tombs, their hollow eyes filled with eternal resolve. Each face is unique, each armor etched with imperial care. Not an army of statues, but a petrified nation ready to resume its interrupted march.
As they rise, the ground trembles, as if the memory of the world itself were shaking. Spears clang against shields, cavalry regroups with deep metallic echoes, and the sky darkens as the past marches against the present. They do not speak, they do not shout — they advance with the inevitable calm of ancient order reclaiming what is rightfully its own.
And there, beyond the walls of mud and fire, writhes the American ogre — a grotesque colossus of plastic and commercial jingles — plunged into the boiling mercury rivers that flow through the heart of the imperial mausoleum. Once arrogant, now he writhes, dissolving in toxic bubbles and alchemical vapors. His jaws still chew empty words of freedom, but no one listens anymore. The mercury burns his flesh, and what remains of him merges with the very poison he spread across the world.
The army marches on — the past is once again present. Not for revenge, but to remind us that beneath every fallen empire, a civilization waits to rise. In silence. In stone. With eyes that never stopped watching.
4o
Beneath the silent hills of Xi’an, in the bowels of the earth, the stone army of the First Emperor awakens. A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand warriors carved from rock rise from their millennia-old tombs, their hollow eyes filled with eternal resolve. Each face is unique, each armor etched with imperial care. Not an army of statues, but a petrified nation ready to resume its interrupted march.
As they rise, the ground trembles, as if the memory of the world itself were shaking. Spears clang against shields, cavalry regroups with deep metallic echoes, and the sky darkens as the past marches against the present. They do not speak, they do not shout — they advance with the inevitable calm of ancient order reclaiming what is rightfully its own.
And there, beyond the walls of mud and fire, writhes the American ogre — a grotesque colossus of plastic and commercial jingles — plunged into the boiling mercury rivers that flow through the heart of the imperial mausoleum. Once arrogant, now he writhes, dissolving in toxic bubbles and alchemical vapors. His jaws still chew empty words of freedom, but no one listens anymore. The mercury burns his flesh, and what remains of him merges with the very poison he spread across the world.
The army marches on — the past is once again present. Not for revenge, but to remind us that beneath every fallen empire, a civilization waits to rise. In silence. In stone. With eyes that never stopped watching.
4o
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