Corridors of Shadows, Sparks of Hope

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In corridors of idle sound, across India’s bustling maze,

Where traditions intertwine, and red tape sets the pace,

Officials with weary eyes drift in distant, endless dreams,

Navigating forms and rules beneath a thousand layered skies, it seems.


Chains of cold bureaucracy stretch silent, gray, and tight,

A fortress built of rules that dims the human light.

Corruption’s subtle whisper threads through dusty halls,

Casting shadows over hopes and dreams that echo through these walls.


Public coffers plundered, stolen by cunning hands,

Justice bent and twisted, blind scales marred by demands.

Funds meant to lift the people sink in secret streams,

While courts, once guardians, bow to hidden schemes.


Yet ordinary lives bear burdens few can understand,

Some are safe with steady wages, while others strain and stand.

Trade unions rise to champion rights, a steadfast, constant voice,

A shield against injustice, helping the weary make a choice.


Yet in the maze, sparks survive; voices quietly rise,

Even through the tangled snare, the nation’s spirit never dies.

Resilience blooms in striving hearts, in hands that seek the new,

Transforming rules with steady care, letting justice shine through.


The chains are broken by daring hearts, igniting rebel flames,

For laws remain but skeletons—alive when freed by human aims.

Within the bureaucratic gloom, human kindness starts to blaze,

Clearing shadowed corridors and lighting India’s ways.


Even in neglect’s deep pit, where coldest shadows reign,

The human spirit’s living fire melts corruption’s chain.

Across this vast and vibrant land, hope’s courage endures,

A future shaped by honest hands, resilient, bright, and sure.


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