Illusions

In this democracy when seeds of opposition don’t germinate

The debate doesn’t blossom and the fragrance is absent

There is but one kind of a strange smell and augurs the death knell

Rotten gets the state of affairs, air, water,

 Roads to perdition, be damned 

Or doomed, a prediction or predilection

For all things saffron or suffering.

Magician or monk, bearded, full of tricks, spells out what he calls as vision

For masses, illusion and they give

A standing ovation.