Hanging on tattered zinc, flaccid in the wind
The roof of a dilapidated school structure bore
The electoral sign, green codes upon white
Danced seemingly beckoning on the voters
To come and cast, to choose a new a leader
The aluminum plate tied with a twine
Like the hangman’s noose, it droops
As if rocking reflectively on the past
To mock the contestants on display
Some who want to win at all cost
The past, doted with flawed processes
Ballot box snatching, use of thugs, rigging
Anti democratic practices and violence
These were the order for a cup of rice
Our franchise, trampled upon, brought pains
Men separated from women with work dresses
After being accredited queued up dutifully
Under the burning sun, some soaked in rains
Expecting their choice of candidate to win
In this process acclaimed widely credible
Comments
Dear Ian.T
It is difficult for me to express love in my writing, not that I have not felt it or expressed it. It seems to occupy the deeper and sacred part of me. Other than the emotional pull of nature or in other word, God, the rich harvests from religious farms undermine personal sentiment. I belong to the minority when it comes to views on religion. Those who know me refuse to talk about God with me. They feel my views are contagious or blasphemous, as I probe into ‘no go areas’.
Sex is another area considered as reserved to the bedroom and therefore not tolerated openly.
Thank you and best wishes.
tr