Names in the bark,
Names in the rain,
Justice has a daughter
Who inherits the stain

Names in the bark,
No knife, no flame,
The tree does not forget
What the court would not name

Her father wore a robe of black,
His hands were pale and clean
He spoke of law like winter stone,
Cold, polished, and serene

Men were dragged before his chair,
Women wept outside
Children learned to lower their eyes
When his carriage passed with pride

At home, he kissed his daughter’s brow,
He taught her how to read
He said, “The world is kept from wolves
By judgment and by deed”

She believed him, being young enough
To trust a gentle tone
She thought the cries outside the gate
Were weather, not her own

O daughter of the judge,
What did your father weigh?
Whose bread, whose breath, whose little name
Was taken by his say?

O daughter of the judge,
The house was warm and bright
But every candle in your room
Was borrowed from the night

If the bark should learn your blood,
If the root should know your shame,
Will you hide behind the law,
Or stand beneath the name?

She saw a mother hold a coat
That smelled of prison straw
She saw a widow bring her tears
To mourn what broke beneath the law

“What has my father done?” she asked,
But no one answered plain
For some wounds fear the listening house
That profits from their pain

So she followed through the evening fog,
Past chapel, mill, and well
To the hill where Lachryma stood black
As judgment after bell

The families poured their sorrow down,
Not asking for revenge
Only that the earth remember
What the court would cleanse

She waited till the mourners left,
Then touched the bitter bark
The moon slid down between the leaves
Like silver in the dark

“I did not sign the sentence,”
She whispered to the tree
“I did not build the gallows,
But the house was built for me”

“I ate beside the fire
While others froze in chains
I slept beneath a father’s roof
Raised high on hidden pains”

Then Lachryma began to breathe,
The trunk grew wet and wide
And names rose through the darkened skin
Like fish beneath black tide

The first name was a baker
The second was a midwife
The third was a boy who stole an apple
because his sister had not eaten

Then came names she knew
from lullabies,
from market songs,
from empty chairs at feast days

And near the root,
one final line appeared:

Daughter of the judge,
what will you do with what you know?

She ran back through the sleeping town,
Her slippers torn with mud
She stood before her father’s desk
With rain and bark and blood

He said, “My child, you look unwell”
She said, “I know the names”
He smiled as if a candle shook
And called her grief a game

She said, “Then why does every name
That rises from the tree
Look less like the guilty dead
Than living parts of me?”

O daughter of the judge,
Stand where the names arise
Let no polished word of law
Put ash upon your eyes

O daughter of the judge,
The house may spit your name
But better to be cast outside
Than warmed by stolen flame

If the bark should learn your blood,
If the root should know your shame,
Do not hide behind the law,
Stand beneath the name

O daughter of the judge,
Let the old question remain:
“Before you cast another stone,
Will the tree write down your name?”

Names in the bark,
Names in the rain,
Justice has a daughter
Who refused the stain

Names in the bark,
No knife, no flame,
The tree does not forget
And neither shall your name