The sand is warm with ancient blood
They cheer, they laugh, they chant for flood
A man walks in, a name erased
A beast of flesh, by chains encased

No crown, no coin, no birthright stays
Just steel and breath and numbered days
The emperor nods, the mob ignites
And fate is bound in flashing lights

Dust and roar, the games begin
Only gods decide who wins
A hundred die, a few survive
In Rome, the strong are kept alive

They paint the sea on marble stone
And watch men drown for cheers alone
The lions leap, the axes rise
And mercy chokes in thundered cries

A chariot spins through smoke and flame
The crowd forgets the driver’s name
But in the dust, a whisper grows—
“Am I not man, though blood still flows?”

Dust and roar, the chain and fame
The dead are echoes with no name
The thumb goes down, the crowd won’t see
What breaks in men when none go free

The bread is cheap, the shows are grand
But justice dies beneath the sand
And every cheer that shakes the gate
Is paid in silence, death, and hate

Dust and roar, but not for long
Even empires fall to song
For one who rose with nothing left
Still speaks through time with every breath

The crowd has gone. The scars remain.
And Rome forgets… but dust has name.