Tea Pain [A Poem]

I sit by the river, watching it shrink,  
The currents no longer sing, they choke,
Much like us, gasping for air under the weight,
Of promises made in gilded halls.

The sun rises, scorching the earth,
But the trees no longer offer shade—
Their branches burdened with the weight of toil,
The fruits, too bitter to eat.

We now laugh at our own funerals—
Funerals for dreams buried under inflation’s mountain.
“Fuel is so high,” we all say, “even our bicycles gasp!”
And we chuckle, because crying costs too much.

The streets are alive, not with music,
But with the sweet melody of kidnapping rates.
Even criminals are budgeting now—
“Sorry boss, ransom rates have inflated too.”

Bread? Oh, that’s a delicacy for kings!
We now trade our salaries for crumbs,
But, well, thanks to our hungers, so kind,
They’ve all gone on dieting.

They say a lion now rules the land,
But his roar only brings thunder—
No rain, just the echo of broken dreams.

Once, we danced to the songs of hope,
Now, the drums are silent,
And we shuffle through the streets,
Barefoot, strained by invisible chains.

The price of laughter? Too high to afford,
So we trade it for sighs,
A currency more common now.

Hmmm, Tea Pain, leader crowned in distant lands,
Does your throne tremble in the wind?
Or is it built on our unresistingly bent backs,
Stacked higher with every price we pay?

The oil flows, but not for us,
Refinery born, but not from us.
Our engines stall, our roads decay,
Yet the stars on your collar still shine bright,
While ours fade, one by one.

They call you Tea Pain—
A name whispered in the dark,
By those who remember when the night
Wasn’t so long;
By those who remember how sheets
Scream when night walks in.

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