47th President Poem: The 47th- a legend or a lore?, by Anavi Bongirwar

The vote was cast, a verdict proclaimed.
Not a new face; he is here to reclaim
His name on a banner, a roaring feat,
An embellishment to the pavement on history’s street.

Words pledged, unity declared,
A repairman, a spare man—
Can he mend the fractures of a nation torn?
A healer, a wheeler, the stories retold,
The same one pasted from the congressmen’s scroll.

Will he heal, or will he divide?
Will the nation soar, or will it collide?
The next four years, a tale open for debate—
Will he write his truths or plagiarize fate?
Will his name echo, as a legend or lore?
A chorus of anger, pushing him to sore.
The 47th stirs both awe and uproar.

Corruption’s tendrils, the endless fight,
The ghosts of greed that haunt the Hill,
The power of money that bends the will.
And yet, acceptance dares to bloom,
A fragile flower in the gloom.

For every leader inherits scars,
But also dreams beneath the stars.
The streets that trembled beneath his feet
Now whisper of victories, moments sweet.
A 47th resting in his heyday,
But the echoes screech even louder every day.

Will the road ahead still be crystal clear?
Or will the people fear the cost that they must bear?
May he rise above the clamor and stunt,
A leader both humbling and proudly blunt.
For the 47th holds the fragile key
To a brighter tomorrow—or history’s plea.