By JH Sayyar
O serpent-tongued, in silken robe arrayed,
Thou creep through courts with noiseless tread,
Where stood truth, now lie thy shadow's dread,
And justice sleeps where her sword was laid.
Thy honeyed words disguise the stench beneath,
Thy golden smile conceals the cankered core,
While widows weep and orphans cry for more,
Thy banquet feasts upon their silent grief.
What price is paid when virtue’s flame grows cold?
What empire thrives when rot infects the root?
Though gilded lies may dress thee fair and bold,
Time's trumpet wakes, and strikes thee with its truth.
Yet still thou reign, behind each mask and face—
O wretched king! Thy throne is built on disgrace.
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