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Poem

Cloaked in misty judgments, we have dressed ourselves,
Finding in condemnation a kind of sacred and dignified sport.
An inert paradigm, where blame is like a talisman
That people wear proudly, believing in the honorable artifices of justice.
We traverse the resounding carnival of designated guilty parties,
A culture that chisels the other's mistake into stone.
We raise clinical pedestals to extol the thesis of our virtues,
Each accusation – a medal, each critique – an ink blot on the intellect's sheet.
A parade of faults, finished in the gold of illusion,
Where the world applauds louder with every &quot;you are to blame!&quot;,
And we become actors in this play of blame - where everyone performs,
Yet no one wins, only invisible paper crowns adorn our fragile temples.
It's a dark magic, a sorcery of faded virtues,
Where words are stones, cast into the eyes of him who sits low,
And he, however innocent, steps inward toward his own crucifixion,
Soothed by the mantra that caresses the ego: &quot;No evil have I done, I... I have remained pure.&quot;
And in this bitter ritual, where accusation is the standard,
We wave whirlwinds of presumed superiority,
When the boundary between the fault placed on another and the link of our own ignorance
Is too thin, a broken line, drawn upon water in our migration toward a tranquil mirror's face.
Thus, in a world that glorifies blame as a victorious sprint,
Perhaps we might discover, on a reflective autumn day,
That true virtue does not spring from accusation, nor intellect from the pointing finger,
But from the sincere embrace of limitations and from the warmth of a heart that judges not, but loves with mending attention.

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