A scale once golden, bright and bold,
Now tilts for those who hold the gold.
A gavel raised with trembling hand,
Yet justice bows to lawless land.

The wicked thrive, the honest choke,
The laws are chains, yet made of smoke.
The courtroom hums with bought-out breath,
While truth is sentenced slow to death.

The prisons swell, but not with sin,
Just those too poor to buy their skin.
For every bribe, a gate unlocks,
For every plea, a voice is mocked.

Yet even rusted blades can turn,
And fires dim, yet still they burn.
A time will come, a time will fight,
When wrongs will kneel before the right.

And when that day, in fury, wakes,
The towers built on fraud will break.
For laws may bend, and courts may lie,
But justice lives—and will not die.