In time’s vast, endless, Truth drifts unseen,
a flickered gleam, in a dark flowing stream,
In worlds both aged and fresh with dew,
It slips away, lost, misplaced, askew.
Truth exists, though an apparition’s creed
Blinded by prejudice in thought and deed,
In every land, and in every age,
A story bound, yet beyond the page.
In whispered tales, unheard, untold,
Where truth indistinct in layers—sold.
Shall I, in verses, try to find
A truth that’s neither yours nor mine?
In yesterday and in today,
Truth is written as if a play.
Amidst rolling hills and skies so wide—
A scene with nowhere left to hide.
Among the rustling, leafy choir,
Where beasts tread soft, with eyes of fire,
Not words nor rumors shape its form;
It flies, untouched by human norm.
In this quiet, wild haven bound,
With God above, the truth is found—
Not yours, not mine, but in the night,
In tales unspun—in sparks of light.
Let this be yours: a flame unseen,
A power steadfast, bright, serene,
For truth endures despite tales we tell,
In memories—minds that heavenward dwell.
Hidden amid the world’s disguise,
The truth still waits where apparitions lie,
Unbroken, vibrant, pure, and whole—
A fire that’s kindled in the soul.
WoPoLi 
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