They fell not as criminals,
But as voices too bold for silence,
Their tongues like flint against the wall
A truth the tyrants feared.

The gallows swung with heavy shame,
But not for those who died.
The guilt, like smoke, still chokes the halls
Where justice should reside.

Years have rolled their mournful drums,
And now the state extends its hand
A pardon draped in woven praise,
Posthumous, proud, and planned.

But pardon speaks not innocence,
It only whispers peace.
It soothes the guilt of distant thrones,
But leaves the wound beneath.

Honour comes with laurels late,
Placed gently on the grave
Yet names in dust still cry for light,
Not flowers or flags they crave.

What of the truth? What of the lie
That crowned them with disgrace?
Until the law lifts off the weight,
Their chains remain in place.

Exoneration is the dawn
That breaks the long, dark night
The word that writes them back to life
In justice, flame, and right.

So honour them with sacred words,
And pardon, if you must
But dare to cleanse their sullied names
From memory, stone, and dust.