The gavel fell, a heavy sound like stone on bone,
And the Poet stood within the dock, accused and all alone.
The charge was read in legal script, a crime of high degree:
First-Degree Reflection and Malicious Clarity.
He had not lied, the jury knew; that was not his offense.
He was guilty of a sharper sin: a lack of pretense.
First rose the Tyrant, dabbing at a tear upon his cheek,
His suit was cut from silk and fear, his voice was soft and meek.
He pointed at the Poet with a manicured hand,
"You wrote of cages, hunger, and the borders of my land.
But where is the nuance?" the Tyrant cried, aggrieved.
"You painted me a monster, and the simple minds believed!
"Do I not bleed? Do I not weep when operas reach their height?
I tuck my children in with love before I dim the light.
You wrote the order signed in red, the crushing of the throat,
But missed the trembling of my hand inside my velvet coat!
Where is the balance, cruel scribe? The human shade of gray?
You showed the night I brought to them, but ignored my sunny day."
The Poet raised his head.
"This is the evidence, Your Honor."