A gavel falls against a hasty quill, To keep the ancient promise of the soil; The cradle claims the country by its will, Unsevered by the ruler’s shifting toil. A judge’s word arrests the sudden stroke, Where heritage was nearly bent and broke. Across the sea, the desert wind turns red, As iron strikes answer iron in the dark; Old rivals wake the specters of the dead, And fanned ambitions catch another spark. The fear of war returns on heavy wings, To test the brittle peace that morning brings. In northern halls where quiet city sleep Is shattered by the sudden flash and sound, The sirens wail, the wounded shadows weep, And grief takes root upon the pavement ground. Too many fallen on an urban floor, Another sorrow through a rented door. Along the marble corridors of state, The midnight pens avert the threatened pause; They barter time against a bitter date, And buy survival with a bundle of laws— A fragile truce to keep the gears in gear, Before the ballots gauge the autumn’s fear. And locked away behind a guarded gate, Twelve weary minds contend with dark and doubt; Five days they balance misery and fate, Unable yet to sort the sorrow out. No verdict comes to heal the broken years, While justice falters in a room of tears.
