Of Men and The Dawn

Old men in batik shirts convene, Behind closed doors, their laughter keen. Their wrinkles map a history's span, Of a republic finding its plan. Young voices rise like misty dawn, By tradition's sun, they're quickly gone. In this land where thousand isles gleam, Power pools where old names still reign supreme. The puppet plays, shadows in flight, As puppeters change through the night. The story stays, though hands may shift, The same old tale, the same old drift. The dreams of fresh starts, New chapters in people's hearts. Yet, history's rhyme in politics stays, Echoing refrains of bygone days.