Shani.
Saturn.
In the East,
they call you
Shani.
The son
of Surya.
The keeper
of karma.
In the West,
they knew you
as Saturn.
The god
of time.
Many
fear you.
Few
understand you.
Even kings
tremble,
when your shadow
falls.
You govern
laws.
Governments.
Kingdoms.
Institutions.
Hierarchy.
Authority.
When rulers
wear black.
Or navy.
They bear
your solemn
mark.
Saturday
belongs
to you.
On this day,
I wear
black,
and bow
before you.
For you
stand exalted
in my
first house.
In Libra.
Many ask,
why wisdom
looks
so serious.
I whisper,
because
of Saturn.
My ego
was great.
You humbled
me.
Not through
hatred.
But through
discipline.
Not through
anger.
But through
truth.
You lift
the poor.
You humble
the proud.
You raise
a servant,
into
a king.
Machiavelli
understood
power.
The sages
understood
karma.
You,
Saturn,
master
both.
Time
is your
kingdom.
Justice is
your language.
Patience
your crown.
I do not
fear you.
I honor you.
For through
your trials,
I found
myself.
when jelly is both jelly and wall
wall simultaneously wall and jelly
a point for nail to enter piercing, stall
lucidity inconceivable to a machiavelli
In the halls of the
United Nations
truth walks slowly.
Speeches travel faster.
António Guterres,
are you leading—
or following?
A throne of diplomacy
was given to you.
Not to decorate silence.
But to confront power.
Yet the world burns.
Gaza
is smoke.
Lebanon trembles.
Syria bleeds.
Iran stands
under the shadow of war.
Inside the chamber
men speak of peace.
Outside the chamber
guns answer.
This is the theatre of nations.
A place where rulers perform
virtue
while power writes the script.
Machiavelli knew this truth:
A prince who cannot act
becomes a symbol.
And symbols
do not stop wars.
Tell me then—
What is the value
of a council of nations
that cannot restrain
the violence of kings?
What is the worth
of authority
that commands no obedience?
If power hides behind speeches
it becomes ritual.
And ritual
comforts the powerful
while the weak suffer.
The world listens
to the sound of declarations.
But history listens
for courage.
For in the end
the question is simple:
Did the chair of power
guide the world—
or merely watch
as it burned?
Power does not shout.
It collects.
What shocks the world
is not strategy,
but hypocrisy.
America preaches sovereignty.
Yet demands yours.
Data is sacred at home.
Disposable abroad.
African leaders,
you sign away bodies
you do not own.
Consent was never asked.
Silence was purchased.
Even foolishness
has a limit.
How long will you trade futures
for promises?
Data is not paperwork.
It is power.
He who owns it
writes tomorrow.
You hand over blood,
bones,
and breath—
then call it partnership.
You trust a deal
crafted by Donald Trump,
a man who measures nations
by profit, not dignity.
You trade minerals
for ink.
Lives
for paper.
What will your children inherit—
databases,
or chains?
Through data,
Africa is mapped.
Measured.
Exposed.
Colonies no longer need soldiers.
Only servers.
Citizens of Africa,
history is watching.
A ruler who sells his people
is not a leader.
He is a broker.
And power,
as Niccolò Machiavelli warned,
respects only those
who guard it.
Remember this:
Who controls data
controls destiny.
And destiny, once surrendered,
is rarely returned.
Truth is heavy.
That is why
only the brave
carry it.
When you speak it,
you stand alone.
Crowds prefer silence.
Silence is safer.
The world is full
of cowards.
So cowards are governed
by fools.
Europe decays.
Africa bleeds.
The earth burns.
And you watch.
Wars are waged
by idiots.
They shout.
You nod.
Children fall
in Ukraine.
In Gaza.
In Congo.
In Sudan.
In Libya.
Their cries rise.
Your courage does not.
When truth is written,
you exile it.
Not to protect peace,
but to please power.
Demons wear titles.
Madmen wear suits.
Merchants of death
call themselves leaders.
Democracy crowns them.
Cowardice keeps them.
Money buys your silence.
Fear signs the contract.
Dignity is sold
cheaply.
Machiavelli knew this:
a state dies
not by enemies,
but by obedient men.
The world burns
while you watch.
Not because you are weak—
but because
you chose
to be
the Coward.
I entered the Capitol.
I saw men who rule
without sitting on thrones.
Their hands were empty,
yet their commands were full.
America acts,
but does not decide.
Orders travel
faster than conscience.
I looked into the eyes
of the Prince.
I saw not a man,
but an echo.
He spoke,
yet another voice
moved his tongue.
Alliances became chains.
Protection became obedience.
The state served
what it did not govern.
Europe followed,
heads bowed politely.
Payrolls replace principles.
Silence replaces courage.
An empire rarely conquers
with soldiers.
It conquers with debts,
favors,
and fear.
The people sleep,
trusting masks.
When they wake,
the state is hollow.
Machiavelli warned:
power survives
only while it appears legitimate.
When trust dies,
even gold cannot rule.
If the hidden crown
wishes to endure,
it must choose harmony
over domination.
For no power survives
once it is seen.
I saw them.
Not as leaders—
as mirrors.
Davos is not a summit.
It is a battlefield of egos.
Trump spoke alone.
A monologue.
Because power does not debate.
Europe listened.
Smiling.
Wounded.
The man who promised peace
now rehearses war.
Not because he changed—
but because the stage demanded it.
Do not hate him, allies.
Study him.
He is your teacher.
He revealed
that love is rented.
Fear is owned.
Machiavelli warned you.
Better to be feared than loved.
Trump only obeyed the text.
A ruler must appear virtuous,
yet abandon virtue
when the state trembles.
Mercy, faith, honesty—
luxuries
when power is at risk.
You built this logic.
You polished it.
You exported it.
“The end justifies the means”
did not begin with Trump.
It built your banks.
Your neutrality.
Your silence.
Do not point fingers.
You trained the hand.
You dug the pit.
He fell in—
and dragged you with him.
Trump is not the disease.
He is the symptom.
Your rolling stone
has rolled back.
And now
you recognize your reflection
too late.
A lie
has short legs.
It cannot outrun time.
You spoke of peace.
But peace does not arrive
on sanctions.
Nor on hunger.
Is this democracy—
to starve a nation
and call it order?
Venezuela burns
not from failure of leaders,
but from invisible chains
wrapped by foreign hands.
You have read this story before.
Libya.
Iraq.
Same script.
Different stage.
Same ashes.
The wise learn from history.
Fools
repeat it with pride.
You call it civilization.
But theft dressed in law
is still theft.
Power, Machiavelli warned,
rots when it feeds on weakness.
Empires fall
not by enemies—
but by excess.
These are not victories.
They are the final kicks
of a dying horse.
Nothing stolen
remains owned.
Nothing imposed
remains stable.
What you have done
to the small
returns to the great.
The wind has turned.
The record is kept.
And history,
cold and patient,
has already begun
to write
your fall.
They called you a dictator.
But you dictated order.
They spoke of democracy.
You built stability.
They accused you of blood.
Yet their hands
drip with continents.
Under you,
Libya stood upright.
Oil fed the people.
Work had dignity.
The desert drank water.
The Great Man-Made River flowed.
A miracle beneath sand.
Life pulled from silence.
You dreamed beyond borders.
Africa united.
Africa sovereign.
That dream
made you dangerous.
They promised freedom.
They delivered ruins.
They promised peace.
They sold chaos.
Tripoli remembers now.
Streets whisper your name.
Too late.
Too loud.
Machiavelli knew:
Power that serves its people
is feared by empires.
They killed the man.
Not the idea.
From your ashes,
others will rise.
Rest now, Colonel.
History has begun
to speak for you.
I walked your streets.
Clean.
Silent.
Beautiful.
Yet beneath marble order,
blood remembers.
Zurich smiled.
The Limmat whispered.
It knows the names
money forgets.
Here, gold arrives
without questions.
Here, crime washes its hands
and calls it neutrality.
No empire of land.
No empire of soil.
An empire of vaults.
Of silence.
Lake Zurich wept.
“We are rich,” it said,
“but our wealth stands
on borrowed bones.”
Drug lords rest here.
Murderers sleep well.
Stolen futures
earn interest.
Perhaps you had no choice.
Perhaps survival chose you.
But Machiavelli warned:
Power fed by shadow
must answer the dark.
He who lives by the sword,
dies by the sword.
What is taken in secrecy
returns in time.
With witnesses.
I saw him upon the platform—
Mr. Trump, with thunder in his voice:
“Solar and wind do not work,
fossil fuels are the true kings of power.
Renewables destroy economies,
and climate predictions are lies.”
The crowd roared,
but I stood in silence,
for it was like watching a comedy staged
in the theatre of despair.
Sometimes wealth makes fools look wise,
and the wise appear fools.
Is this the leader
346 million souls must follow?
Is he blind to burning forests,
to rising seas,
to storms that tear apart
the very fabric of the earth?
Machiavelli once said:
“The first method to measure a ruler’s intelligence
is to see the men who stand beside him.”
If Benjamin Netanyahu is his chosen friend,
then the flock is no surprise—
for birds of prey circle together.
And if this is the inheritance he leaves,
a denial of truth,
a betrayal of future generations,
then let history write it plain:
The legacy of Donald Trump
is not greatness,
but a Legacy of Shame.
I have been reborn and have soared with aggressive force out of my coffin
As I emerge from the cosmic womb covered in my Mother's blood
Now I'm creator, now I'm universe.
A covert narcissist dressed in a hand-me-down victim cloak,
Master of the tear-tantrum tactic —
He sniffles, sobs, and simpers until your defenses drop,
Then slides a betrayal in your back so smooth you almost thank him.
A codependent parasite latched to his mother’s emotional tit like a tick,
Bound by an enmeshed dynamic so tight you'd think she birthed him twice.
He’s 40 going on 14,
Displaying classic symptoms of Peter Pan Syndrome with a sprinkle of Oppositional Defiance Disorder every time life whispers “grow up.”
Zero employment history,
But extensive experience in triangulation, gaslighting, and learned helplessness.
He’s the CEO of deflection, a PhD in projection,
Weaponizing guilt like a toddler with a grenade.
He calls you "too emotional,"
Right after he weeps his way out of another confrontation
Like a soggy Machiavelli.
He’s not just a mama’s boy.
He’s her emotional husband,
Their emotional incest dressed up as devotion,
While he lets her make every decision
Between his gaming sessions and tantrums.
He’s the kind of man who, if given a mirror,
Would still find a way to blame the reflection for his failures.
To be feared or to be loved
A king contemplates
No right answer can be had
The ends justify the means...
Machiavelli, an oxymoron
or Ovid, a paraphrase (?)
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