As the smell of elections pays a visit to our nostrils
Politicians glue to their tools and drawing boards
Working on new tactics
That would melt our hearts into votes
They temporary divorce their familiar tantrums
And turn super-angelic
Towards our disregarded
poverty striken souls
Their lips give birth to
verbose speeches
That brushes off dust of
misery from our skins
And paints a rainbow to our blue world
Keep your senses on guide
They masquerade as saints
Yet their hearts are dyed with
malice
Close your palms upon their
short lived hand-outs
They don't care about us
But rather our votes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem