Day after day we calculate and move,
Synapse-knowledge-emotions like a fool.

Living in room hiding from electrical discharges.
Bone-mechs cald with skin, powered by synchronised organs.

Am I doing it right, doing it wrong,
Addicted to dancing pixels, sometimes with sound.

Biforcated by beliefs, adapted by ones dead and long-gone,
Equality-butchered, familarity-prioritised. We give rise to this humane song.

Clashes of war far from view,
Brought closer by information you wish you never knew.

Written to a passive existence we play,
With one chance, many saying 'aint nothing changing anyway'

The game of life with हड्डी , पस्ली and clones.
It's nice to remember, once the skins are stripped, we're secular at the bones.