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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When I beheld Trump and King Charles III, walking hand in hand within Windsor Castle, my heart broke— for in Gaza and Ukraine blood runs like rivers, while in Britain, children sleep on empty stomachs. Yet here, beneath chandeliers and polished stone, business is discussed, not humanity. You call him King, but what King feeds on the sweat of the poor while his kingdom starves? What monarch sits at banquet tables funded by the weary backs of laborers, while his people beg for bread? This is no crown of honor— but a crown of profit, shining with the blood of innocents. Trump—twice welcomed in state procession, twice received with silken carpets while the widows of Gaza walk barefoot on rubble and ash. Melania smiles, nobles raise their crystal glasses, and behind closed doors the whispers are of profit: “How much was made from Ukraine’s fire? How much from Gaza’s dust?” Another voice replies: “Sudan will yield, Congo will bleed— there is still more gold to reap from the bones of the forgotten.” And I, standing at the gates of Windsor, asked myself— is this theatre? Is this a cruel play upon humanity? Or is this our reality, where power is a masquerade and the tears of the masses water the gardens of kings? O Britain— you call yourself great, but greatness does not dwell in palaces. It is found in justice, in bread for the hungry, in peace for the weary. Until then, your castle is a tomb, and your banquet—a feast of shadows.
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