Beneath a sky of ashen blue,
Stands a tower of rules in view.
Its pillars rise, cold and grand,
With laws inscribed by unseen hands.

This organization, revered by name,
Wears a crown of untouchable fame.
Yet in the corners of its solemn halls,
Justice whispers, silenced, and stalls.

Their rules, the foundation firm,
Unyielding, they refuse to turn.
Truth knocks softly at their gate,
But often meets an unkind fate.

Guardians with steel in their eyes,
Weigh facts with scales that belie.
Not truth, but rules, they tightly hold,
Rigid and weary, unfeeling and cold.

Where are the tears of the overlooked?
Where is the laughter that time forsook?
Rules build walls both high and wide,
Blinding those who dare to decide.

Yet among the ruins of broken hearts,
A whisper rises, "Are we not apart?"
But the murmur fades, swiftly denied,
Beneath the hammer of rules applied.

Oh, organization of noble acclaim,
Will you not heed the world's refrain?
Your rules are firm, they will not waver,
But must truth forever lie in the shadow's favor?

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Miraman, in the year 966 AF.