Where is the oomph put in the campaigns?
Where are the pledges in our china plates?
Where is the link between us and them?
Where is the meat we ought to have now?
When will the message of hope yield fruits?
And the peace we lost be restored?
They say it is easy to get to the bowel of the sea
For there are no technocrats.
Easier to count its sand
They will not complain of lies.
But the fair-haired path to a politic heart
Who wins the contest, Iron?
Mesh of campaigns
Who sells lies to the masses?
Pumpkin leaves add no salt to a soup
In that patch, politic wigs grows
You never know impoverishment
Until a spirit of lies gives you food
More garden of sorrows
And evil rests its head!
No love dies
Unless it’s not equally mixed
Real smiles don’t fetch pains
Unless it did not come from a pure heart
For love resides in heart of men not on logs of wood
Or at the village square
Not even at a party rally
But it glees daily in the heart of men;
When will love be the soul of the throne?