Chanda Katonga Poet Free verse

Karl Marx

In Brussels, I sat among doubters.
You spoke—calm, fierce, certain.
They mocked.
I listened.

Your words fell like thunder in a silent hall.
“Workers of the world, unite!”
They laughed.
You prophesied.

Now it is 2025.
And your shadow walks again.
Machines rule the hands of men.
Corporations sit where kings once sat.

You said,
“The production of too many useful things
creates too many useless people.”
Today I see them—
wandering, forgotten,
slaves to invisible masters.

You warned,
“History repeats itself—
first as tragedy,
then as farce.”
Look now—
Gaza burns,
Europe trembles.
The farce wears the mask of progress.

Your words were not theory,
they were scripture for the waking poor.
But the poor still dream.
The chains remain—
polished, digital, unseen.

I walk to your grave in Highgate,
where the wind still whispers revolt.
Your prophecy breathes in the dust.
Your ghost still teaches in silence.

Karl Marx—
the world you warned is here.
And I, your disciple,
kneel among your ashes,
still believing,
still mourning,
still waiting for the workers to wake.

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