This land is a serpent's den where cronies coil and slither. Morals shackled in chains and buried. Injustice wears its crown.
In the corridors of power, cronies cloaked in corruption ravage the nation to anaemia. The scales of justice tip in their favour, by corruption’s weight and blood of the powerless who bleed under the weight of inequity.
Democracy, where are you?
In the corridors of power,
the king’s confidant,
a thief among treasures,
suspended for pilfering,
a brief digression amidst public protest,
by a resolute stroke of the monarch’s decree,
restored to his former glory,
the shadow of his transgression eclipsed
by the monarch's unwavering favour.
But Petty thieves in desperate need
driven to crim by hunger and poverty
face harsh punishment:
severe sentences and squalid dungeons.
In this land,
a cage descends on a helpless man
for stealing a lottery ticket,
a poor man manacled for a fowl's theft.
But he, the confidant,
the monarch’s hand in velvet gloves,
with millions pilfered by special decree,
slips away like oil through fingers.
Democracy, where are you?
In our whispers,
painful questions rage:
How did Democracy fall so far?
Are our dreams like hats
lost in storms?
With voices
silenced, justice denied,
we navigate through
the colonial womb
to corruption's grasp:
a suffocating embrace
of vampires feeding
off the state's lifeblood.
Hope’s flames still burn.
corruption’s furnace torments us now.
We taste time’s bitter fruit.
One day, the ordeal will end.
Justice will rise from its tomb.
Democracy will breathe again
with lungs that beat for all.
A delightful destiny awaits us without fail.
Tags:
Poetry