Poezja

They clap and clap till their hands grow tired

 Sing with high tone till their voices worn out

 For leaders of untruth words

 They cast their votes with the wish that change will be


 Once tasted the cushion chaise

 The rhythm of the drum alter to a cymbal tone

 The dance steps are followed together as one

 By far all promises climb up the tree

 

 Poor souls of this Island

 Have been waiting for a perpetual new ray of sun light

 All leaders voted as a motive for their voices

 Turn out to betray and shatter their hearts


 Cruel, hatred of unknown kindness

 Trample on the conscience of devoted electors

 Deliver false illusion

 To a nation that is moaning for hope

 

 To all are rip-off their fair rights

 The wrong and the bad  are at large

 What fair can be drawn out of madness?

 No cure for this island soul.

© 2011 by _Patricia Etienne

 All rights reserved