What do we know
of possibilities,
of a vote that echoes,
drowned in promises that flutter like paper
kites,
lost in the wind?
is a garden we till,
where the few have the seeds
and the rest get to watch.
In theory, we soar,
but in practice, we sit at the back,
waiting our turn with the hope
of a forgotten piece of paper.
Politics, a game where the fool may rise,
wearing riches like a crown,
while the wise can stumble,
their visions clouded,
enclosed behind locked doors.
We see who falls,
we see who stands tall,
thanks to the coins that trade respect
for power.
Laws flip like pages,
one man saluting them,
another breaking with ease.
Hunger and fullness slip through the same
alley,
both shackled by chains we hardly see.
They preach liberty,
equality, fraternity,
from podiums as lofty as their titles,
but their feet dance to a different beat,
a rhythm where justice closes one eye
while keeping a watchful glance at the gold.
Count the new faces,
the parties full of good dreams,
yet the seats they hand out are heavy
with empty promises,
like classrooms filled with lessons
that forget to teach the heart of kindness.
hoping for fruit,
yet the trees stand bare,
their branches reaching—not for the sky,
but for pockets lined with greed.
Rich get richer, poor stay poor,
as the winds of change swirl,
fresh faces appear, but the soil remains dry,
the rains of care never fall.
Law doesn’t map the way;
ministers trade places,
but the plight of the lost
remains the same.
Will we ask again—
is anything possible?
Or shall we whisper,
and let the question
remain unanswered?
