8
Beneath blinded eyes, a banker’s thumb pins the right pan of Justice’s scale to pay dirt
In the desert air above, thick with terror and dry from greed, the left pan props up a hair trigger
with the scales bottomed out in a nation of turned heads, we look back to Justitia to see a way forward
we open the book of the dead and pen new lines with an ostrich feather, inked with the blood on our hands
We walk on marble facade To the stone heart of the republic and balance it back to Anubis’s truth
as the constitution erodes where the ten commandments first cracked And the Quran sings holy war
We Guard the gates of Eternal truth
-The Watchers