Look at the politician.
Look at the politician.
He travels far from polished cities,
from streets that smell of money and comfort,
to beg for votes.
Politician,
can you not feel shame
inside your stone-cold heart?
How dare you arrive in shining cars
to the homes of the poor,
where walls are shaped from mud and sand,
where dignity survives on hope alone.
You pass your future funeral house
on the road near the town—
yet you smile.
You could have been beautiful,
but you never cared.
You never listened to the man
inside the shacks of Soweto.
You never heard the woman
whose tears leak through tin roofs at night.
What you need is his vote,
so you can sit in power
and forget his name.
The pain you have caused the poor
is not forgivable.
One day you will fall to your knees
and beg them—
but no one will look at you.
All eyes will be fixed on the enemy,
because it feels easier
to face an enemy
than to be betrayed by a brother.
VERSION ONE OF TWO
LOOK AT THE POLITICIAN.
He crawls out of clean cities,
out of glass buildings and perfumed offices,
dragging promises like plastic bags in the wind.
Begging.
Yes—begging for votes.
Politician—
do you feel anything at all?
Or did you trade your heart
for rocks and contracts?
How DARE you arrive in shining cars,
windows dark, engines purring,
to the homes of the poor—
houses stitched together with mud, sand,
and prayers that never reach you.
You pass your funeral house on the road home,
yet you laugh.
You wave.
You lie.
You could have been beautiful,
but beauty needs conscience—
and you buried yours.
You never listened to the man
rotting in the shacks of Soweto.
Never listened to the mother
counting hunger instead of money.
Never listened to the child
sleeping with rain on his face.
You don’t see people.
You see numbers.
Votes.
Power.
You drink from the pain of the poor
like it is tradition.
Remember this:
the wounds you carved
will not heal with speeches.
One day you will fall—
not gently.
You will fall HARD.
You will drop to your knees
and beg the same people you starved,
but their eyes will pass through you
like you are already dead.
Because betrayal cuts deeper
than oppression.
And it will feel easier to face an enemy
than to forgive a brother
who sold his own blood for a seat of power.
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