Why I scribe again?

This time of year I muse and scribe again

The burden shouldered wearily laid down,
All broken hopes succumb to agonizing pain
By bloody acts that shook our capital town.
God knows who plague our happy spring days
And nip the buds of branches green and gay,
The darkening clouds of grief that clog all rays
Of hope that lodge in heart; now life decay.
All botched us: pulpits, barracks, parliaments
We blinded multitude: driven, deaf and dumb,
Our blood their feast, our pains their sacraments