Frail, worn and battered, 

 She timidly emerges from her shelter, Where she has been hiding hunkered down, In recluse so that this world does not crush her, Searches the ground for her regal robe, Picks up her dented measuring scales, Sets its weights back in an attempt at order,  Finds her sword, her tiara, reties her high sandals, And once again stands returned , Freedom on the podium,  Our Lady of Justice clears her eyesight Under trammelled forebrow With dirt from her absence griming her hands, And sees for the time being What hopeless wandering her anonymous servants  Have been engaged in,  And waits for a sound, only the rising of the horn, After the surreal and empty lockdown.