Man made machines
Machines now dictate to man
But we call it CivilisationClothes made against nakedness
Is now a piloting factor for nudity
But we call it Fashion

Nations concerned about the number of institutions
But care less about the quality of the service
Yet, it is called Education

Where politicians spend billions on the national bread
And not a single crumb falls for the citizens to munch
Yet it is called a Nation

Where leaders rule with their stomach
And lead masses like lambs to be slaughtered
We still call it Administration

Nevertheless I dip my pen in rituals of hopeful dream
That the tune might change
A fatal demise of ticks of discomfort
And harps of hopes made stronger

Our inane world might once more regain its values
Our broken voices harmonising to a mellifluous melody
Our plants stemming up proud to wear garments of green
Our precious petal of peace may not again wither.

*This article was written by Manuel Zenith