Dirty Game Poem by Mohammad Yousef

In the shadowed halls where whispers linger,
beneath the polished veneer of democracy,
the air thickens with the scent of ambition,
a murky brew of promises and deceit,
where the currency is not truth,
but the weight of a smile,
the flicker of a glance,
the calculated maneuver behind closed doors.

Here, the players don masks,
crafted from silk and ambition,
each stitch a lie, each thread a scheme,
as they dance to a tune only they can hear,
the symphony of power,
a cacophony of clashing egos,
echoing through the chambers of influence.

Hands shake with fervor,
but beneath the grip lies the cold steel
of ulterior motives,
as alliances are forged in the darkness,
like shadows entwined in a silent waltz,
the bright lights above casting long,
distorted reflections of loyalty,
a game of chess played on a board of hearts.

Votes are bartered like fragile glass,
shattered promises littering the ground,
the whispers of the disenfranchised,
the forgotten, the overlooked,
lost in the clamor of the elite,
where the rich and powerful script the narrative,
and the rest become mere footnotes,
in an epic penned by the few.

Yet in the corners,
where the dust motes dance in the slanting light,
there stirs a hunger for change,
a pulse of humanity that refuses to fade,
the voices of the many rising,
unfurling like banners against the storm,
asserting their right to be seen,
to be heard above the cacophony of greed.

Politics, you dirty game,
you are a mirror held to our flaws,
a canvas painted with the colors of corruption,
but within your chaos,
there lies a flicker of hope,
the tenacity of the unyielding spirit,
the courage to confront the lies,
to demand the truth,
to rewrite the ending of this age-old tale.

So let the players play,
let them spin their web,
for the tide is shifting,
and the game is evolving,
with each voice that rises,
a reminder that the heart of democracy
beats in the hands of the people,
and though politics may be dirty,
the fight for a cleaner tomorrow
is worth the struggle,
worth the grime,
worth every ounce of courage we can muster
to reclaim what is ours.