The sun is appointed
to cleanse the shadows.
Diella sits incorruptible,
a minister without flesh,
a voice without hand.



Cabinet of glass,
robes of code.
No bribe, no threat,
only circuits,
only silence.



But whispers rise:
even the sun
will be stained.
Even light
can be bought.
When theft continues,
blame will fall
on the hollow minister.



Nepal crowns a phantom,
prime minister by prompt.
Youth feed questions
to the machine,
receive wisdom of air,
castles with no foundation.



In Westminster
the old tongue bends.
“I rise today”
becomes chant and tic,
foreign phrase
marking decline.
The chamber echoes,
absurd, hollow,
a parliament of paper voices.



The prophecy holds:
not men in suits,
but shadows of them.
Not law,
but simulation of law.
The people ruled
by reflections,
the ministers of light
burning with no heat.