9th to 16th January 2012.

I stand staring,
The serene scenery of the sunlight vicinity.
So quiet, so quiet as if sacrilege being otherwise.
Is all her inhabitants in exodus?
Oh! What a mournful Monday morning!
Everything stands still, stands still: water supply, electricity,
Filing stations, markets, hospitals, transportation e.t.c.

Lonely streets breadthless, fruitless.
All that moves stock and stoic.
A proviso induced by unpopular policy,
For the leadership is insensitive.

All heads across the states hit the ceiling roof.
These angry agitated minds fused and start,
Firing on all cylinders to eliminate outrageous decision.
Here and there placards took over the sickly streets.
Hungry horrific fagged faces already bellicose,
Protesting the leaders adding of insult to injury.

From 9th to 16th January, this country came to an acatalectic halt.
Zillion of income was lost; so they say.
But who cares when not used for the boon of all.
Afterall it was a free fraud seven days!

Until their demands made, no going back, no work.
But like a bolt from the blue,
The front heads compromised their integrity and jeopardized all efforts.
So the seven days of doom dawn; no fruition; people disappointed.

Within the Capitalist World

The pleasures of the rich,
Is bought by the tears of the poor.
The wealth of the burgeoius,
Is acquired from the labour of the proletariat.

It is a relationship,
An assymetrical relationship; one of hierarchical order.
It is a world of social stratification,
One is on top, the other beneath.
A world of complete absense of equillibrum.
The weak/poor are subdued,
the strong/rich, the subdurers.
Everything depends on ones social strata.

All depends on who gets what.
Who owns what; who controls what and when.

It is a game of ownership,
Those who possess valuables make all decision.
Outstanding comportment does not count;
Money in its heterogenous manifestation matters, rules and chooses.
The rule of the game; join the winning team or get crushed.

The one with perspiration all over lives hand to mouth.
He toiled day and night like ants,
But goes to bed stomach lacuna.
Except bones of flesh covering a frustrated soul and a bitter mind,
Nothing else for his dedicated labour.
Equally he is dispensable.

The Capitalist cares less,
But perpetuates in amassing more and more,
With little or no exhaustion.
He screams in joyous attainment.
He hightens the goodness of his luxury,
And contemplates on the amplitude of his abundance.