The stage of power is narrow, held by just a few,
Who shroud the sun and block the morning dew.
They are the Oligarchs, the titans of the purse,
Whose hoarding grip becomes a nationâs curse.
A tiny circle, locked to common men,
They plot our futures from a gilded den.
They own the pipes where all the riches flow,
And choose which humble seeds are allowed to grow.
Like puppeteers, they pull each legal string,
To make the laws serve every prize they bring.
They buy the voices and they capture every state,
While the weary masses linger at the gate.
Identify the few who hoard the land and oil,
Who feast in luxury on anotherâs toil.
They speak of progress, but it is a mirage,
A hollow mask for their golden camouflage.
Look for the circles where the "How" and
"Why" are kept,
While the eyes of justice have seemingly slept.
But hear this warning, built on ancient law,
For every egotistical throne has a fatal flaw.
Karma is the shadow that follows every deed,
A harvest bitter for the spiritâs greedy seed.
As action changes, the reaction must descend,
To break the empire, you struggled to defend.
Turn from your gluttonous before the light is gone,
For dark is the night that follows such a dawn.
You cannot bribe the Spirit or buy the hand of Time,
Nor hide the stain of your economic crime.
Let go of "more" and learn the way to serve,
Before Karma strikes with the justice you deserve.
©Jan. 2026
E. K Doga
(Prof. DEK)
