In the dusty squares of forgotten villages, we gather.
Workers, traders, drifters - no titles here. Only witnesses.
Something vast passes through.
Not meant for our hands. Not meant for our backs.
But impossible to ignore.
We raise our hands anyway.
Not in surrender - but in respect.
Because there is honor in watching greatness move past you.
There is pride in the long road.
We are the small ones at the edge of history,
steady enough to wait,
patient enough to endure.
And someday -
when the ground shifts -
it will be our turn.
Until then,
we hold.
We wait.
We believe.
WAGMI
