The Auction Of Democracy Poem by Sachin Sunny

In marble halls, where freedom's flag once soared,
A gavel slams, a people's dream falls dead.
With silvered tongues and pockets lined with lead,
The bidders stalk, their promises are bred.

Sweet honeyed lies drip from their forked tongue,
Of streets paved gold, where fortune freely flows.
But truth's a whisper, lost when sirens sung,
A web of deceit where poisoned knowledge grows.

They wield religion's blade, a weapon keen,
To cleave the heart, sow discord's bitter seed.
With visions of crusades, a promised scene,
They splinter faith where unity should bleed.

The ballot box, a tarnished, hollow shell,
Now groans with burdens, choked by empty vows.
Each vote a coin, its worth they know too well,
As discord's serpent through the garden prowls.

When victory's crown sits heavy on their brow,
Hope withers, choked by power's grasping hand.
Democracy's bright flame, once burning proud,
Now flickers faint in corruption's shifting sand.

Awake, dear citizens, from slumber's hold,
Recall the power that resides in you.
In righteous hands, a story yet untold,
Can break the lock, where freedom waits anew.

The auctioneer still calls, time's embers glow,
Bid high with truth, with justice as your guide.
Let wisdom be the coin you choose to sow,
With conscience as your compass, by your side.

For democracy's a flame, not bought or sold,
A garden nurtured, where all voices blend.
Rise up, a chorus, strong and clear and bold,
And end this auction, till the very end.