I. The Procession
At memory’s gate, the past unfurled—
Rangia College, in jubilee gold,
Summoned a march, a thousand strong,
To chant reform in tide and song.
I wore the jester’s cap and bell,
A painted grin to mask the spell,
Danced for sweets, for laughs, for praise,
While children chased my ribboned maze.
The banners flapped like righteous wings:
\"Unite! Uplift! End evil things!\"
Yet irony, that voiceless thief,
Crept in beneath our shouting brief.
II. The Shadow
Then—crackling through the festive cheer:
A boy, his ribs like ladders sheer,
Tied to his mother’s broomstick spine,
Both fused to dust, their eyes resigned.
The march surged on—a blaze, a flood—
They did not move. None understood.
The mother’s palms, upturned and split,
Held nothing but the weight of it.
III. The Reckoning
I gripped my flag marked “Peace for All,”
Yet felt my costumed spirit fall.
What worth are words, so bold, so sweet,
To those who rot beneath our feet?
The jester\'s role came uncomposed—
A mimic\'s mask, too thinly posed.
No coin I gave. No hand I lent.
Only heat, and shame, and silent bent.
IV. The Epiphany
That night, the stars were sharp and wise,
They pierced me through the moonless skies:
“You marched for those a world away,
Yet let your beggar child decay.
The hardest path you’ll ever roam—
Is knowing charity starts at home.”