[Intro]
[Three iron bell strikes answer a descending twin-guitar figure.]

[Chorus]
Under the court seal, under measured law,
I wrote down every word and questioned nothing that I saw.
Under the court seal, where doubt must remain still,
A name becomes a sentence when the ink obeys the quill.
Under the court seal, let truth and order meet;
So I believed, with clean white hands and dust beneath my feet.

[Verse 1]
At dawn I crossed the market where the timber houses leaned,
Past shutters barred by winter and the gutters seldom cleaned.
The crows were on the chimney pots, the frost was on the square,
The courthouse bell divided work from worship, grain from prayer.
A clerk in black received me with a candle and a key,
Then bound a crimson ribbon round the book entrusted me.
He pressed the silver emblem in a pool of heated red:
“Write clearly for the living, write exactly for the dead.”

[Pre-Chorus]
No rumour crossed the margin, no anger crossed the line;
A statement sworn before the court would make the meaning plain.
I dipped the sharpened feather in the disciplined black stain—
One bell for accusation, two for judgment, three for pain.

[Chorus]
Under the court seal, under measured law,
I wrote down every word and questioned nothing that I saw.
Under the court seal, where doubt must remain still,
A name becomes a sentence when the ink obeys the quill.
Under the court seal, let truth and order meet;
So I believed, with clean white hands and dust beneath my feet.

[Verse 2]
The magistrate wore sable with a chain across his chest,
He spoke of wolves in human skin and rot within the nest.
The preacher named the ancient foe, the bailiff named the fee,
The witchfinder watched the doorway but said nothing yet to me.
Behind them stood the shelves where former winters had been tied,
Each bundle marked with parish names and testimony dried.
Wax blistered on the verdicts; dust gathered on the blame,
Yet every page looked orderly, each column had a name.

[Pre-Chorus]
A law without a record was a blade without a spine;
A town without obedience was a barrel without wine.
The magistrate raised one pale hand and gave the book a sign—
One bell for accusation, two for judgment, three for mine.

[Guitar Solo]
[Twin leads develop the three-note judgment motif over a tightening gallop.]

[Bridge]
I saw a desk, a balanced scale,
A folded cloth, a hammered nail.
I thought the seal could not deceive;
Clean sleeves concealed what I believed.

[Build-up]
The courthouse doors were opened wide,
A widow waited just outside.
The ribbon tightened round the spine—
The empty page was wholly mine.

[Final Chorus]
Under the court seal, beneath the magistrate’s law,
I wrote the widow’s measured words and every charge I copied raw.
Under the court seal, I trained my hand to still;
Her life became a column when the ink obeyed the quill.
Under the court seal, the bells divided time—
One name beneath the heading, and the first clean stroke was mine.

[Outro]
[The gallop stops; quill scratches continue over a single low guitar note.]
The page was white.
The wax was red.
The first name waited
To be read.
