A BOY IN THE WHITE HOUSE
He is seventy-nine,
yet speaks like a child
lost in a world
too big for his voice.
Words spill from him
like a river without banks.
A mouth without discipline.
A tongue without a guard.
They call him a leader,
but he carries no weight
of Wisdom.
Only the noise of ego.
True leadership
demands humility.
Demands silence
before speech.
But he rushes to talk
before thinking.
This is the disease
of Western democracy—
where money crowns fools,
and popularity crowns jesters.
America suffers.
Families break.
Bread becomes gold.
Hope becomes debt.
Yet he thinks of wars.
He thinks of weapons.
He thinks of enemies
that are not hungry.
How can a man
who never tasted hardship
understand the poor?
How can a soul
untouched by struggle
cry with the broken?
To him, power
is not service.
It is business.
It is investment.
It is empire.
He behaves like a boy.
He walks like a boy.
He talks like a boy.
Yet he sits on a throne
built for men of Wisdom.
Great leaders
do not speak loudly.
They act quietly.
But he does the opposite—
noise without substance.
movement without direction.
At seventy-nine,
he has learnt nothing.
Not from life.
Not from time.
Not from silence.
People laugh at him.
Not because he is funny—
but because emptiness
cannot hide itself.
A spoiled child
of fortune and comfort
now rules a wounded nation.
A kingdom of adults
led by a boy.
And history watches,
with sorrow,
with irony,
with the cold voice of truth—
That age does not bring Wisdom,
and crowns do not make kings.
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