[By Kidane]
Anarchism and its hidden agenda
Anarchism, the pretentious lady, how on earth can you lie;
When you say you conceived democracy as a boy;
Politically boasting as a sway;
For Ethiopia to be a king any way.
In the land of Ethiopia, where beauty meets strife;
A nation torn asunder, the people in strife.
A tale of deceit, of power, and greed;
Of leaders who lie, while the people bleed.
A mother who claimed, a son she had borne;
To rule over the land and make it reborn;
But truth was abandoned, for lies and for political gain;
The people grew weary of sorrow and pain.
The dream of a king, a unifying light;
Now lost in the shadows of an endless night.
As factions divide and conflict ensues;
A nation once proud now sings the blues.
Yet still, there is hope in the heart of the land;
For justice to reign and truth to command.
That peace may return, and unity reign
Ethiopia rises miraculously to glory again.
In ancient Ethiopia, a land of grace and might,
Lies a tale of deception that took a mother’s right.
She proclaimed her boy king to rule with just hands, But political ploys had other plans.
As factions collided and anarchy reigned;
A nation once proud became a battlefield drenched with blood;
Country disgraced with genocide;
The anarchists’ revolt for a game without end;
The people grew weary their hearts could not mend.
But hope, like River Nile, still courses through the vein;
Of Ethiopians longing for peace to return;
A dream of unity, of a land blessed with plenty;
Where truth is the compass and freedom is regained.
As winds of change sweep across this land of lore;
The people arise their spirits to restore.
For every story of sorrow and pain,
holds within a promise of new life again.
So let us not falter as the struggle ensues,
for a nation reborn, with dreams anew.
That mother’s lost hope may yet come to be;
As Ethiopia finds her own destiny.
Upon the throne of anarchy, where chaos reigns supreme;
An orchard where anarchy grows;
A curse of bitter fruit and shattered dreams.
The people plant their hopes like seeds in the soil;
Yet trees of thorne yield apples ripe hope with toil.
Democracy, the apple they seek with hearts so true;
But from these branches it never comes to view.
For anarchy the tree that thrives on conflict’s loom; Cannot bear the fruit of freedoms’ blooming home
A dream of expectation that withers on the vine;
In a land where the power struggles are the dominant design.
To seek the unexpected in this garden of despair;
Is to search for miracles, amidst the briars there?
Yet still the hope persists like wildflower in the rain;
That one day the apples will grow and peace will reign; However, until the soil is tilled by hands that work as one;
The fruits of freedom shall not be won.
So let us learn, from this orchard’s tale of woe;
That where anarchy prevails, democracy cannot grow; But still, we must strive to seek a better way;
To find the seeds of freedom and let them have their day.