The Prisoner’s Dilemma

"I long for nada but the emancipation of the mind."
Image by Ch Kondoom

One: The Confession

there once was an inmate, a man of forty, 

weighed down by life’s grim absurdity. 

he begged to confess, 

to clear his chest, 

to rid his conscience of its unrest

not for the bomb that shook the state, 

nor the bribes that sealed his fate

it wasn’t the crimes for which he stood blamed, 

but the guilt of a world he couldn’t have tamed

with a sedated voice, heavy and low, 

he began his tale of sorrow and woe:

Two: The Justification

darkness consumes my every breath, 

while all I ever sought in life was light, 

a fleeting joy, a moment of pride, 

yet I’m bound to this land, 

this selfish love, where my roots still hide.

inside this cell, the shadows creep, 

my world’s grown darker; my soul sinks deep

but i will try, till my dying day, 

to break these chains and find my way

i read of Shawshank, of hope’s ascent, 

and dream of escape, my will un-bent

inspirations abound, but one goal remains, 

a fire within me that defies these chains

not freedom of body, nor riches refined

but the unshackling truth—the emancipation of the mind

i care for my unborn child, 

for my blood, my lineage, my ties, undefiled.

let the other bloods be— i’ve seen them spill, 

a crimson river across the Nambul, standing still, 

flowing profusely, lost to a cause with such might, 

while i sit here, clinging to mine, holding tight 

they called it corruption, plundering greed, 

but I saw a future, a family freed

currency glowing in secret accounts

a legacy growing in quiet amounts

as secretary of a land, I took my chance, 

turned duty to profit in a careful dance.

money moved where my creed took root, 

a noble pursuit, I thought, absolute

even now, I claim my name is clean, 

each coin was earned, never too mean

scrupulous, I say—or so I’d believe, 

paving the way for what I’d achieve

the taint of greed, you may suspect, 

but hear me out, at least, with respect.

things were grim, I do admit, 

but I balanced lines in the darkest pit 

in government halls, where jobs were rare, 

came seekers with burdens they couldn’t bear

gold and chains from mortgaged homes, 

fields laid bare, ancestral loams

tempting gifts I turned away, 

for the eyes of civil watchdogs held sway.

the militants, the cops, the rebels, the press, 

the gunmen with egos, their nerves a mess

so I made my picks with careful grace, 

to keep the scale just, to save my place

imagine their shock—a job by merit! 

a miracle, quiet, I dared not share it.

Three: The Bombing

from leikai to leikai, I ran my game, 

seeking votes, building a name

trust I sowed, their hopes I grew, 

ballots bore fruit, my dream came true

then the power came, fast and vast, 

a seat in a house of shadows cast.

but they outdid me—more cunning, more cruel, 

the veteran sharks of this power pool

I chased Delhi’s funds to patch my plan, 

while they drank from the vein of man

power here lifts you to a height divine, 

where gods might falter, but you don’t decline.

absolute power—more than just force, 

it writes the rules, it shapes the course

corruption’s a system, a game we play, 

but power is beyond even judgment’s sway.

so I gave up my seat, my ministerial throne, 

the day they condemned me, I stood alone

life sentence passed, but can't you see? 

this is the price of their power, not just of me.

before the verdict, I had long known, 

the voices inside me, their weight had grown. 

I saw the games, the lies, the play, 

and dreamed of a different, unshackled way.

like the ibises in March, against Koubru's sky, 

free, unclaimed, they soared high

I envied them, I wanted their grace, 

so I donned a mask, picked up the pace.

and I bombed the assembly, no questions, no qualms, 

sent them all down with burning palms

the mongrels, I killed, no second thought, 

to me, they were rot, their purpose naught.

Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb! 

Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb! 

Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb! 

Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!

if I felt sympathy, I might've spared, 

sent them on flights, gently cared

let them feast far from blood and grime, 

where no debt is paid for another's crime.

but I had a point, I had to prove, 

to shake the world, to make it move.

Four: The Reflection

a beggar’s hand must never steer 

this world’s cruel and creaking gear

society grinds, it chokes, it spins, 

turning our truths to masked sins.
fail engine! broken state! 

power's bought, we seal our fate.

here I sit in a shithole cell, 

a ghost among men, a hollow shell

everything’s broken, torn apart

a wasteland gnaws upon my heart
schools and homes, they teach you to bend

in duty and guilt, there’s no true end.

Five: The Interviewer Speaks

the bomber of the assembly, his story unspools, 

mistaking my notes for pity's tools.
here in this cell, you can summon a treat, 

but what’s the use, when all's defeat? 

just two shots of junk, a fix to breathe, 

while death hovers in silence beneath.
so I stopped him, passed him the water, 

as I scribbled the storm he’d authored.

and I said:
your days are as long as your sleepless hours, 

in this land where lives are weighed by powers

where killing’s a gamble, and breath a prize, 

a number uncalled in the blood-soaked skies.
you’re lucky, still breathing, lost in the tide, 

but how will your dreams turn back the slide?

when people seek not visions grand, 

but a modest home, a quiet land

where joy is bought in hours, not grace, 

and birds are watched from a peaceful place.

your rage, your bomb, your wicked score, 

will only summon armies to our door

while the leaders flee to America’s sheen, 

touting dreams with a plastic sheen.

for the people, it’s dread, more pain, 

more chains, more wounds again

in your old land, dirt 

has more worth than blood or soul or human birth.
so fade with me, in this rotting hall, 

bound by truth, behind this wall

this decay is cleaner than the world outside

where the price of living is dignity denied.
if that still chokes you, and your rage won’t do, 

here’s the junk, and a gun for you

shoot your shot, try that high, 

but know it’s hollow, a fleeting lie.

-- Concluded.

What compels an individual to succumb to such profound despair, where the pursuit of power and survival eclipses that of justice and humanity? In what manner can dreams for liberation resonate when individuals’ ambitions are reduced to mere survival, seeking wealth and comfort rather than striving for higher ideals, freedom or ethical considerations? Alas.