No Crown for Vengeance

They spoke in whispers, not by choice— Beneath the lash, beneath the voice. The law was iron, cold and blind, And mercy lost to those confined. The stars looked down but did not speak; The silence ruled the low and meek. Yet in the dust, a dream took root— A vow that pain would not stay mute. The dream grew teeth, the silence broke; The fire leapt from every yoke. They marched with thunder in their veins, And shattered walls, and snapped the chains. The tyrants fled, the flags were torn— The dawn arrived, both proud and worn. But in the ash, a voice did cry: “Beware the throne, lest truth should die.” The crown lay waiting, gold and grim— Its edges sharp, its light grown dim. “We’ll rule with justice,” they declared— Yet justice trembled, unprepared. The once-oppressed now held the sword, And vengeance whispered every word. The wheel turned fast, the loop grew tight— And history echoed through the night. One voice stood still amidst the roar: “Let us not build the same old war.” She dropped the blade, she raised her hand— And planted peace upon the land. Not all were pleased, not all were kind, But she had seen what power can blind. The loop was cracked, the spell undone— And freedom breathed beneath the sun.