Is this a ballot which I see before me,
The pencil toward my hand? Come, let me spoil thee!
I make my mark, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To reason as to fear? or art thou but
A figment of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the senseless-sounding brain?
I see thee yet, in form as worthless now
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
And in this booth I ruined my chance.
Mine ears are made the fools o' th' other senses,
For all I heard was said. I see thee still,
And on thy form and ballots rests the nation’s hope,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is a bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the wasted chance
Future seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Evil celebrates
Kameleonise and empty promises,
Alarumed by former comrade Kasrils,
Whose house is bought, and with his stealthy plans
With Maharaj’s empty words, forge his design
To take his seat for five more fearful years,
I feel the sweat upon my brow, for fear
Thy very stones speak of my foolish act
And take the present horror from the time,
In which he rules. While I spoil, he lives;
And five more years will pass under his rule.
Oh, that I could go back again, and make my mark
To change things, and have my respect.
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