The Chronicle of Man may lack detail
To indicate how every human hand
Contributes to a tiny grain of sand
Which lands upon the arc of justice’ scale.
Each youngster who takes turns upon the slide,
Or comforts fallen playmates on the ground;
The man of means who reaches calmly down
To lift his neighbor and dust off his pride –
These nameless, unremembered acts have pitch
Which hum with constant tone and clarity.
They thrive on faith, and hope, and charity –
Their singing makes the poorest, warmly rich.
Of course, some precious few wield blocks and stones
So dense they rock the balance and cry out
For justice past the shadow of the doubt.
Their strength exhumes the deepest buried bones.
Yet most of us will never know our part.
The microscopic bit we cast upon
The plate that bears the bulk of fairness won.
We know only to walk our path with heart.
The moral thus reverberates with time.
Humanity has progeny unborn.
This unrelenting cavalcade walks on
And drops its bit of truth while freedom chimes.