The Bard’s Rewrite
A Maiden Bound in Cruel Chains
O, pity the poor soul whose fate was sealed ere she could speak her woe! A tender maid, scarce past the budding years of childhood, was cast into a house of sorrow, there to dwell in shadows deep and cold for nigh on half a century. Not for crime nor villainy was she thus ensnared, but for the simple truth that her mind danced to a tune the world did not heed. Like fair Ophelia, misunderstood and cast adrift, she was shut away, her voice unheard, her spirit left to languish.
What cruel hand did sign the warrant of her doom? What careless minds did mark her plight and yet turn away, unheeding of her silent cries? Was there no Portia, wise and just, to plead her cause? No Cordelia, whose love and truth might pierce the darkness of this wrongful fate? Nay, none arose, and so the years unrolled like a scroll of sorrow, each day a bitter echo of the last.
The Walls That Hold No Justice
A prison by any other name would still confine, though it be called a place of healing. Yet what physic can mend the spirit when its very freedom is denied? This house of care became a dungeon, and the healers within its walls turned wardens, keeping her bound not by shackles of iron but by the weight of neglect. Wherefore did no wise Prospero rise to break the spell, to shatter the walls that held her fast? Alas, the tempest of her suffering raged on, unseen by those who might have set her free.
What justice is this, when the innocent are punished and the guilty walk free? Let those who held her thus account for their deeds! Let the law, like stern Angelo in his judgment, weigh their failings and pronounce the doom they deserve. For if the strong do not rise to shield the weak, then is the world itself a madhouse, where reason is but a jester’s cap and mercy a thing forgotten.
A Call to Right This Grievous Wrong
Now, at last, the tale is told, and the trumpet of truth doth sound its clarion call. Shall we stand idle as another such soul is lost to the void? Nay! Let those who wield the quill of law and the staff of healing take heed, lest their own names be writ upon the scroll of shame. This maiden’s sorrow must not be in vain; from her plight must spring the seeds of change, that nevermore shall innocence be so cruelly caged.
O England, land of kings and poets, wherefore dost thou let such wrongs be writ upon thy history? Cleanse thy hands of this stain, and let justice, like the dawn, break forth anew!
