Someone will come,
cupping his hand
around a single
grain of truth.
We all will seed it
in our minds,
and water it.
Protecting, vigilant
to newly-sprouted stems,
with our crops together
we will ripe,
then reap them clean
from muddy dirt and weeds.
We'll grind the grain,
cleanse our souls,
knead, salt with songs
and bake the bread of truth.
Part 2. Change
How long were we
afraid
to break the bread of truth!
We stand with fingers burnt,
watching the scattered
pieces.
Hearts, fired point-blank
we watch,
outgrowing silence, fear,
stupor.
Part 3. Dread
The broken bread of
truth
is steaming thick…
I suffocate.
The steam is dripping red—
the blood of faith.
“We broke our truth
to feed them all!” I whisper.
Then suddenly I’m paralyzed with dread
that everyone will need it all and whole
but all they get is
red, desperate spray—
the blood of faith.
Part 4. Shout
I gather all the
broken crumbs
of tiny truth’s leftovers,
feeling them
as hot as embers in my hand;
then shyly stretch a blistered palm,
but, no, behold—
all people’s eyes are turned away…
The doe of trust is wounded,
man cares not to know the truth,
because he’s clogged with lies
half-hopes and frantic pain…
A shout…
Yes, there is
one single shout—
because the truth
was shamelessly undressed
with false and farcical decisions,
devices, slogans, resolutions,
fake banknotes
stuck onto her forehead,
a lavish payment
in the dark unlawful bed.
A single earsplitting shout remains!
