Justice! (or The Road To Ruins...)

[Maty]

Justice! (or, The Road To Ruins...)

* Due to a mistake in terminology the word “wheel” is used herein as synonym to the word “wagon”. I have already finished my work on this poem when I discovered that it is not a proper use for the word and, after long considerations, I decided to leave it as it is. The reason being that the word was too lyrically dominant in the work. Trying to replace it, I concluded, would mean writing a new poem rather then correcting the present one. While using it, although technically a mistake, did not flaw the concept and substance of the poem- which was my goal. I think that with a basic knowledge in Objectivism and history the poem should be clear. Feel free to ask me if you'll have any questions.

On a twisting road to justice,

riding in a shaking wheel;

Remains of which was once the finest,

greatest carriage ever seen.

Struggling to keep it moving:

An exhausted, crippled horse-

Driven by the one who made it

one leg shorter then it was.

To protect the noble cause,

a blinded shepherd was assigned;

One that’s still looking for his sheep…

Yet do not alarm,

In a sign of danger…

The fearless shepherd is equipped!

He’ll play his little, happy flute.

And peacefully, would fall asleep…

Your shepherd was not always blind,

not too long a time has passed.

Since that present that you’ve got,

from a shaken wheel you’ve met…

Then, your shepherd had his eye,

open, on your driver’s path.

And your horse,

although born crippled,

could stand proudly on four legs.

Those days, your wheel was known to glory;

For it’s proud, productive stage.

Your horse, a breed of royal honor,

which no other horse would match…

Born to end this current sorrow,

Lift you to the highest edge;

A new age! Was where it meant to lead you-

But for this glitch, it’s breeders failed to catch…

That very glitch was yet to sanction

a Trojan horse into your plains.

As from the east a plot was marching,

to put an end to your advance.

A shaking wheel, struggling slowly,

to fall for mercy at your feet…

And to present you with a trophy;

Greeting, from the breeders of the east.

In those lands, breeders seek destruction!

And train their horses for this end…

Their drivers, who adore corruption-

Play along the breeders plan.

They do not mind the final stop,

which is destined for their wheels…

Don’t even mind to tag along,

and meet the end they chose to bring.

Megalomaniac between the borders,

on the giant board of fate.

Not realizing that’s “Game-Over”,

when a horse strikes in “ Check-Mate! ”

They’re driven to be power frantic,

To satisfy their lack of pride;

Like every other parasite-

They’ll hop on a chance for a free ride.

And so, the wheel has anchored safely,

at the greenish harbor of your plains.

Their Trojan horse, soon began nibbling-

Your farmer’s golden locks of grain.

Their trophy rose to cut your skyline,

Overshadowing your grace!

Blindly, carrying the inscriptions:

“…Your sick and poor we will embrace…”

A giant figure met your sun,

as it went sailing down the sea.

Towards the horizontal ground;

Tries to escape the tragedy.

A shepherd, neutered of his sight;

Like a soldier of his shield.

In a crying, bleeding, burning light-

Your sky rebelled against this deed.

Of course, your driver was delighted:

eagerly, to sell his soul.

He must admit how he admired

those eastern ways to gain control.

His outfit tagged “compassionate”,

a touch of “righteous” on his face.

Out on the stage to dance and sing:

“Your sick and poor we will embrace! ”

Your breeders quickly caught the tune,

joining on their instruments.

So that relatively soon,

Your whole carriage was in trance:

Crying, begging their forgiveness,

Pleading guilty, like you should…

Explaining, that you did not mean it!

…to reach so much…to be so good.

To show how well you are intended,

Your horse was ‘limped’ it’s ‘rightest’ foot:

A sacrifice, to your long offended-

comrades- eastern brotherhood.

As for your shepherd, to restrain him,

from objecting to this lie.

And to resemble that big phony,

rising high against your sky…

Your driver took away his eyesight,

Like their “driver’s-guide” suggests:

“…to efficient his work,

and to put him in his place…”

“…How can he really be objective…”

Continues the “driver’s-guide” handbook,

“…if at any time he pleases

he can walk around and look…

Only blind discrimination is the subject of mere chance.

Let him guess his way to pension,

and in case you’ll need defense…

Put him on a leash and lead him

To that one you wish to fence;

The true essence of his work is-

seeing only through your glance! ...”

So, your shepherd went on blindly,

Discriminating right and wrong.

“…it’s easy! ” said the driver kindly:

“…Ini—Mini—Maini—Mo…”

Yet after a while of “Ini—Mini…”

And a little longer “Maini—Mo’s…”

The shepherd found it to be a really-

boring thing, and turned to go.

He went to find a little shop,

and bought himself a little flute.

Then settled on a sunny hill,

With a little tree of apple fruit…

So little by little spent his days;

Little song, by little nap.

And only when the driver needed-

He came tapping on his lap.

Now, twisting on your road to justice,

You’re finding it a bit obscure…

To see your modern, mighty carriage,

drawing back to it’s overture:

It’s joints are cracking, color piling,

walls collapsing one by one.

And from a glorified oasis,

You’re left sitting in a pound.

Cold and hungry you sit shaking-

in your shaky little wheel.

Your shamefully shaken situation

finally shakes you to rebel.

You call your shepherd, to defend you.

Pleading that’s not what you’ve meant:

“…that’s the way to twisted justice,

not the noble plan we’ve had…”

But your shepherd cannot hear you;

He’s laying stretched beneath a tree.

His head supported by an elbow,

on some distant, sunny hill.

A half chewed apple by his side,

and the flute between his lips.

The only sheep that’s on his mind-

Jumps over a fence to help him sleep…

Yet, your despair had echoed many miles,

to reach your mentors patient ears.

They spot a hopeless, distant cry;

As the shark smells helpless, bleeding fear.

And once again a plot went marching-

to arrive at your despair.

Not to present a greeting trophy-

But greet you, with a pointed spear!

The time has come to take decision,

It’s not too late to change your course.

Put your driver on a leash,

and get yourself a fresh new horse!

One your breeders would infer

From the downfall of your last,

And use your own wits to differ:

If the one they sell would stand the test…

There’s no such thing as twisted justice!

Just twisted men, with twisted plans.

If you chose to put in practice

ideas you have not thoroughly learned:

Justice is the sum you’ll find

Causality marked your “reality test”.

This is why it is advised,

Before you further to advance:

To make sure that what you think

Stands up to what the world demands.

Yet, if you choose to keep on blindly,

Believing something would occur…

And save your ass the un-avoided

Consequence of what you vote:

Then doom on you,

For soon you’ll meet!

That end for which your horse was limped.

For which your driver has deceived,

And breeders failed to get a grip.

The essence of that shit you preach,

Of what your educators teach

To childish minds they sacrilege,

Who grow to feed this heritage…

Your journey’s soon to meet it’s fate,

As an eastern horse would strike “Check-Mate! ”

And their pointed spear will claim your throne;

“Your account is overdrawn! ”

Edited August 18, 2005 by Maty