They are soiled people
They are oiled souls
They are boiled shells
They are coiled coals
They make living out of soils
Most of us carry it on head
Some of us know it is inside and outside
Few of us agree that we are from soil
But this group is proud of their foil
They call it by names
Silicon, Carbon, Graphene, Lava and so forth
When we till our earth
When we tilt our head
When we mince our mold
The chip we make steal our earth
It rains heavy on the soaked blood of many others
May chip makers know that theirs is soil too
