Democracy The Black Wine Poem by Dhal Bahadur Jirel

When I see a drunk man
Gloomy, messed up
Depressed or hurt
Walking in the street
With rumbling stomach
And trembling feet
Kicking street dogs
And speaking nonsense
Towards home
I do often ask questions to myself,
'Does he drink for pleasure? '
Several answers muddle
In my mind
Perhaps he drinks
To overcome poverty
To forget injuries
To be brave to others
And perhaps
To fill energy in his tired body.
And several scholars are seen
Behind him to control his freak saying,
'Give up drinking.'
'Love your family'
'Don't quarrel.'
'Be gentle.'

Instead, if I say,
He is not the real drunkard
Do you agree me?
You know who are the real drunkards?
Do you know which is the real branded wine?
Do you know?
Which is the biggest bar in the country
Thinking about which
I actually become mad?

Hail, people........!

Politicians are the real drunkards
Corrupted government is the real bar
And the so called democracy
Is the real red labelled black wine.
Drinking which
We, the people are made joke.