veracity

In the beginning, when the young light sang,
Truth, the bright child of unblemished dawn,
Wept for the love of men that went all wrong,
As shadows grew where once clear waters sprang.

"O creatures of the fleeting day," cried Truth,
"Why do you turn from the unwrinkled way?
Why do you love the lie, the sly unsooth,
And make your bed where serpents lay?

I am the voice that never dies or sleeps,
I am the wind that weeps in the wires,
I am the sea where deep calls unto deep,
I am the fire that aspires.

But you, my children, who once walked in light,
Now dance with darkness and with death delight.
You've sold your sight for blinding, silvered glass,
And traded songs for whispers in the grass.

Untruth, the painted harlot of your hearts,
Has laid her chains upon your souls' bright parts.
She sings her siren song, and you are lost,
Adrift, and do not count the dreadful cost.

The honest stand accused, their words defiled,
Their silent screams lost in the growing wild.
The just are jested, and the pure are pained,
By the false fires in which you are chained.

Awake, arise, shake off the shadow's net,
Return to me, and do not forget,
That I am still here, waiting, burning bright,
To guide you through the darkest night."

So Truth, the ancient, endless, lonely seer,
Calls out to us, across the chasm sheer.
Her words a beacon in the blackest storm,
A hope that we might yet transform.