Trial

In the hush of the court’s vaulted stone,
a hush that feels like an old lullaby,
the judge’s gavel settles—
a whisper that turns to a knell.

The claimant, ink‑stained heart in hand,
speaks truth as it stitches day into night,
while the defendant’s eyes flicker
over the counsel’s lined promises.

Outside the glass, voices rise,
a choir of witnesses who remember,
each sentence a swift arrow, each glance a verdict.

Trial is not just the hour on the clock—
it is the breath held in the beating of an oath,
the unspoken plea that even the walls listen for.

It comes in phases: the arraignment, the plea, the cross‑examination—
a dance of language, faith, doubt.

In the courtroom, the past is resurrected,
the present stretched into the very weight of the decision,
and the future, unspoken, hangs in the balance like a tightrope.

So, let us craft our words with care,
for the law is a mirror, reflecting both truth and metaphor,
and a trial, whether legal or personal,
is the silent forging of what we become.