By JH Sayyar
In halls where truth rises with solemn flame,
Injustice lurks behind a soft silken guise;
The scales are tipped, none speaks the name
Of power cloaked in law and whispered lies.
The cries of broken hearts are swept aside,
By hands that write with ink of cold disdain;
The widow weeps, the orphan’s tears are dried
By winds that blow from thrones of silent pain.
Blindfolded Justice sees with the tilted eye,
Her sword grown dull, her balance cast in rust;
The rich ascend while pleading poor ones die,
Their hopes betrayed, their bodies turned to dust.
Yet still the dawn may rise where dark has trod,
When hands of men are moved by truth—and God
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