Dark souls within garbs bright.
Elegantly attired men in white.
As if politest creature on land.
Travel miles in verdure or sand.
Palms joined before the bosom.
A traditionalistic Indian custom.
Faces with unending smiles.
False promises in stockpiles.
From street to street in clusters.
From door to door like beggars.
Their words like song of psalms.
Red or black, color of their palms.
But all are like seasonal bugs.
Many amongst them are thugs.
Their actions draws intense flak.
Tis a choice 'tween red or black.
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Comments about this poem (Elections 2014(iii) by Md. Asadullah )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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