War throws us straight into Filipe Ret’s personal battlefield, where every victory is paid for in sweat, smoke, and swagger. From the very first lines he stacks money like bricks to build his own castle, declaring that “the bare minimum is giving my maximum.” Ret paints himself as a modern gladiator blessed – or cursed – with the god of war living in his veins. Happiness is dismissed as a goal for the weak; instead, he chases power, self-reliance, and the thrill of combat. Between flexes about passive income and green buds, he reminds us that faith in yourself is the only real safety net.
The chorus pounds home the brutal truth: “Wars don’t end; they exist until we die.” In Ret’s world the lines blur between music and gunfire, love and violence, compassion and mockery. He fires shots first, hands out Band-Aids later, calling this twisted tenderness. Beneath the bravado lies a stark message for anyone hustling in an unforgiving city – the struggle never really stops, so you might as well own your fight, sharpen your edge, and keep marching to your own relentless beat.