Image by kp yamu Jayanath from Pixabay
The ink was dry before the dawn,
The seals were broken, curtains drawn.
A whisper through the crowded street,
Sold out the dreams of the elite.
Not of the rich, but of the poor,
Who swept the steps and swept the floor,
To buy a book, to light a flame,
Before a leaked sheet cleared the game.
Years of the lamp, the midnight oil,
The quiet, suffocating toil.
The mothers are skipping meals to pay,
For coaching classes miles away.
All reduced to a digital file,
Passed around with a crooked smile.
While honest hands are left to shake,
Behind the choices others make.
The pressure mounts within the room,
A heavy, unforgiving gloom.
When systems fail, and hopes are erased,
Some could not bear the stolen place.
A final note left on the bed,
Where quiet, broken tears were shed.
They lost their lives to this defeat,
A tragic cost of a broken NEET.
The stethoscopes that should have been,
Are bartered by the men unseen.
They sold the ranks, they sold the seats,
While justice paces on the streets.
How do we heal a nation's pain,
When even science carries a stain?
The system broke, the papers bled,
And left the future cold instead.