The Committee stands firm in the glare of the day,
When the boast of a man fills the chambers with bray.
He counts his “wars” as if peace were a game,
But his record of rage remains his lasting acclaim.
For the medal of mercy, his name brings dismay—
A prize far beyond his reach and his say.

In Caracas, a voice rises from danger and dread,
Through the terror of night, where the brave rarely tread.
María Machado, with courage austere,
Defies the cruel rulers who rule through fear.
She stays with her people, though hunted each day—
Her courage outshines his hollow display.

He proclaims from New York, with a grin full of pride,
That his “peace” is achieved as the bombs have not died.
But the world grows weary of false-hearted men,
Who purchase applause with a promise again.
The Nobel refused him; the world looked away—
And honoured the soul who chose to stay.

Now the laurel of peace finds a worthier brow,
Not the hand that would thunder, but the heart that knows how.
For the struggle of truth in the face of control
Is the measure of peace and the test of the soul.
So may history remember, in just and fair play—
The wise who denied him that honour today.