Have the Judiciary’s Decisions in Recent Years Led to a Decline in Democracy’s Trust?
Once, the gavel sounded like thunder,
a sacred echo in the halls of hope,
where every citizen—small or mighty—
found equal shelter under law.
Courts were temples of restraint,
their words weighed heavier than crowns,
their silence more powerful than slogans,
their judgments stitched with reason and mercy.
But time has chipped the marble faith.
Now verdicts fall like fractured glass—
each shard reflecting a party’s face,
each truth bent by the hands that hold it.
The robe that hid the human heart
has grown transparent with ambition;
politics whispers through chambers
meant only for conscience and code.
Justice once walked without a banner,
now it is marched through prime-time screens,
debated in hashtags, defended in mobs,
until law itself forgets its own voice.
The poor still wait in endless corridors,
files aging faster than their lives,
while the powerful buy speed in silence—
their cases light as feathers in flight.
And so democracy stands in the gallery,
not angry yet—just quietly afraid,
asking whether the scales still balance
or merely pretend to sway.
For when courts lose the people’s faith,
no army can guard a Constitution,
no ballot can mend a broken oath,
no anthem can replace belief.
The gavel may still strike wood,
but trust—once cracked—
does not echo back.
Robes of Doubt
In marble halls where silence once was law,
the gavel falls, but echoes crack and thaw.
A nation watches, weary-eyed and torn,
as black-robed figures weave the threadbare yarn.
They spoke of rights, of balance, of the scale,
yet every verdict leaves a widening trail
of whispered questions curling through the street:
Is justice blind, or does it only meet
the gaze of power in partisan clothes?
One dawn a ruling, hard and sharp as frost,
one night a stay that leaves a thousand lost.
The court, some say, now holds a shattered view—
not law reflected, but its red and blue.
The poor still wait in corridors of dust,
while privilege rides elevators of trust;
and faith, once whole, now flickers in the throat
whenever margins split the final vote.
Trust is a bird that startles at the noise
of televised truths and partisan poise.
When benches tilt, when five beats four each time,
the people feel the quiet theft of rhyme—
half citizen, half subject of a throne,
still standing while the ground is overthrown.
O Judiciary, once a temple flame,
now scripted like a chapter in a game,
your ink is sharp, it cuts where hope once stayed,
each verdict more a wound than what you made.
We ask not gods, nor miracles to save,
only that justice rise above the wave
of tribe and thrill of momentary win,
so faith may find its footing once again.
The question hangs, as heavy as the sky
before the storm that no one can deny:
Can broken trust be stitched by written lore,
when every ruling splits the people more?
The gavel falls.
The marble keeps its pose.
But in that echo, something vital goes.
Contributed By: Ajay Gautam Advocate: Lawyer / Author / Columnist
