A ball kicked back and forth between bureaucrats, like a shuttlecock tossed between the rackets of indifferent authorities, this land of mine has become nothing more than a mere possession. Once rich with sacrifice and struggle, those days now feel like distant history. The “Independence Day” comes around with its empty fanfare, high-sounding promises made—promises that are broken before the ink can dry. It’s always been this way, hasn’t it? We speak of updating the system, of striving for enlightened moderation, but we’ve forgotten the very principles we once held dear. Forgotten the values that once defined us.
I am the country now—divided, fragmented, and scarred. Five decades of my existence, marked by nothing but influence peddling and political machinations. Everywhere I look, the elites dine on excess while the common people, torn between their desires and struggles, are left to suffer. The rich, in their gluttony, celebrate in nightclubs and lavish feasts, as my body—the land itself—is pushed down by the weight of their corruption.
I am torn apart into sects, each more fragmented than the last. Extremism runs through my veins like a poison, slowly draining the life from me. And my soul, helpless and bleeding, cries out for salvation that never comes. My constitution, once the symbol of my integrity, is now nothing more than a discarded piece of paper—an afterthought, a joke. Peace and harmony? Mere words, lost in a haze of promises that serve only to line the pockets of the powerful.
The worth of merit has vanished. It is no longer the ability to do, but who you know, where you come from, and how well you can pander to the elite. The media, which should reflect the pulse of the people, has become a circus of shamelessness. Women are reduced to their sex appeal, their beauty measured by the gaze of the world, not by the depth of their minds or the strength of their character.
Budgets are drafted, revenues inflated, yet all it does is serve to deepen the cycle of poverty and starvation that plagues us. The cries of the hungry and the poor are drowned out by the clinking of glasses at lavish parties. “Equal distribution of money,” they say—but it only feeds the already bloated, while we starve. Banks are robbed in broad daylight, and my honor is trampled in the streets. The world looks upon me and calls me a harlot, questioning my dignity as though it is theirs to claim.
My people are worth nothing. The value of life is reduced to a paper with a fee—red tape that suffocates us all. Deaths pile up like administrative tasks, as if human lives are just numbers to be filled in a ledger. And still, I mourn. My heart aches with grief, my eyes searching, longing for the patriot who will come and remind us of our humanity. Who will rise to teach us that a nation is built not on corruption and dishonor, but on truth, compassion, and unity?
But for now, I am left with nothing but this grief—waiting for the day when my soul is healed and my land, once again, knows peace.