The Poet opened up his mouth, but silence ruled the room,
For next came the Witness, rising slowly from the gloom.
A man broken by the nameless car, by treads of heavy tanks,
The Poet waited for a nod, a look of silent thanks.
But the Victim spat upon the floor, his eyes a burning coal,
"You thief of private misery! You vampire of the soul!
You wrote the crunch," the Victim screamed, "The blood upon the street!
You made my life a horror show, a tragedy complete!
You inflated every sorrow, you made the shadows tall,
But tell me, Mr. Poet, was that really all?
That morning, before the unmarked car came screeching to the curb,
I smelled the roasting coffee beans and heard a singing bird.
I saw a yellow flower pushing through the cracked cement,
And for a moment, I was whole, and wonderfully content.
I forgot the pain! I forgot the fear! I felt the sun on me!
But you left that out to make your point on 'human misery.'
You made me just a victim, a symbol for your verse,
You stripped away my small delights to make the ending worse!
Where was the smell of cardamom? The nuance of my breath?
You stole the life I actually lived to glorify my death!"
The Judge looked down with weary eyes, and sealed the heavy text.
"The world is vast and contradictory, the human heart perplexed.
To tell the truth so stark and cold is but a different lie,
For omitting the complexity makes the spirit die."
The verdict fell on the Poet's head, a sentence just and grand:
He was condemned to break his mirror and to burn his pen.