The Best Sparrow Is a Dead Sparrow

Now the sparrow lies dead.
It chirped too loud, said too much.
So, with deep regret,
democracy had to burn it, with its torch.

Now that the sparrow is dead,
democracy can hear democratic words—
the words of its pallbearers,
those venerated leaders.

Now that there are no dissenting voices,
no one dares say anything bad.
True democracy,
at last,
has descended upon the grateful nation.

And now that the sparrow lies rotting,
we can heave a collective sigh of relief;
we exercised our votes,
and we deserve what we have received.

In the morning,
we hear the silence.
Newspapers carry on page folds 
smiling faces,
of the elected kings and queens:
"All good, we are in pink of health."

People lose jobs,
marriages shatter
in economic inconvenience.
Money for education,
only plastic cards.
Surreptitiously book
cheap caskets,
lest bank balances
disappear before they are in the ground.

But there is no problem,
seems like someone pressed the mute button.

Democracy is true convenience—
it needed a small casket,
almost no space,
and a shallow grave,
to be swallowed by mother earth.

Nation moves like a silent theatre.

But somewhere,
from the putrid stench of the sparrow's remains,
a small, frail, but defiant voice appears.
"Down with democracy's perversion".

Someone picks up his gun
and shoots at the heart of
ballot boxes' paralysed, perverted form.

Life starts anew,
flowers of democracy bloom on its grave.

And the kings and queens frown,
"didn't we torch the sparrow right?
how does a sparrow have nine lives?
shoot it, or be counted as anti-national".