Egalitarian dreams

In the stone-clad silence of the hall, I stand, 

A leader torn in two, with gavel in hand. 

My son, young and brave, his virtues bright, 

But one misstep has brought us to this plight. 

"For what is justice but the denial of compassion," 

I declare, while my heart contends with its own lashing. 

Communities cry for balance, for a scale that’s just, 

Punish the wrongs, uphold the rights, in this we trust. 

Yet, here in the echo of the gavel's fall, 

I see my son, and in him, myself—I see us all. 

He’s done more good than harm, yet the balance tips, 

In the eyes of the blind law, his good seems like mere blips. 

In this chamber, where truths are supposedly told, 

Justice feels more like a trade, bitter and cold. 

My son stands quiet, accepting the fated toll,

His good deeds forgotten, the bell of judgment tolls. 

But as I look into his eyes, clear and deep,

I see the boy I raised, now a man, cast into the keep. 

Justice, oh justice, what have we become? 

Is your purpose not to heal, but to numb? 

As I lower my gavel, with a heart so conflicted, 

I realize that justice, too, is often wrongly convicted. 

"For what is justice but the denial of compassion," 

Perhaps in another world, another time, another place, 

Justice and mercy embrace in a warm, forgiving grace.