These words are mine, and mine alone, on those who rule with stranger's hand,
Who mock the watchman on the wall, and sell the soul of kin and land.
They charm the foe, excuse the flame, then curse the shield that dares to hold,
And scatter bribes on sacred fields once paid in blood and oath and gold.
They feed the mob with borrowed bread, and whisper wrath through paid deceit,
They tear down stone, defile the gate, and bind the sentry’s steadfast feet.
To those who breach the silent shore, they pour the coin and kiss the blade,
While voices true are gagged with law, and right itself is called a shade.
They laugh at texts where honour sleeps, and scorn the grave where heroes rest,
And dance atop the crumbled hearths of nations once by virtue blessed.
But walls still hum with buried names, and winds still sing in ruined halls,
The hand betrayed shall find the sword when final reckoning softly calls.
The flags are folded, not yet gone; the fire beneath the ash remains.
When slumber lifts from weary eyes, the truth will course through tongue and veins.
The false shall flee their gilded thrones, the borrowed crowns shall crack and slide,
And those who loved this land shall rise, with dawn behind and God as guide.
(By John Shenton)