Ghosts of the State (poem)

In the City of Djinns
Apologies are aggressive.

Piled on slices of little learning
The King sits on a throne of cards
The courtiers sing praises to bravery
Steeped in their own cowardice.

Dusk is dawn, dawn is dusk
Husk is wheat,  wheat is husk
The warriors savour the bread of glory
The silence of the peasants tells another story

The King fights a war of his own making
Some for the bards, some in his faking
The netherworld of Inertia is a strange place to be
The shadows of your past is not for all to see

In the City of Djinns
Blaming is a fine art

The throne of cards is built on hopes
Cemented by promises where wisdom gropes
A vast ocean to swim but no island in sight
The ship is creaky, there are battles to fight

The peasants are no warriors but in the war of life
Their struggles are enough, they want no strife
They amuse themselves in the boasts of conquests
The courtiers are clowns -- in acrobatic tests

In the City of Djinns, tragedies are comedies
There are teardrops in the eyes, while the lips say cheese.
- Madhavan N, 2016