The Unhallowed 250th Semiquincentennial

Two hundred fifty years of turning,
the spinning cycles round the burning sun.
The covenant once sworn in ink and blood
is now a script for brokers, not for men.
The sovereign voice, which ought
to ring like brass, is muffled
in the velvet hangings hung
by hands that weigh the soul
in sterling silver scales.

Behold the hollow feast.

The cornucopia is tipped aside,
and where the bread should break
for hungry mouths, the famine spreads
its silent, creeping shroud.
The great have built their towers
to the clouds and left the valley floor
to rot in want. Their laws are sophistry,
their justice blind to all
save those who gild her marble eyes.

What pride remains
to sing of liberty?
When bondage wears
the mask of common good,
and avarice is crowned
in public square.

The light is failing,
the vision dim,
and we, the keepers
of this fading spark,
stand in the cold,
unready for the night.

We have outlived
our founding hope, and find
the glory vanished,
and the work undone.