Every day but
There is nothing I can do. You
Know what it’s like because you have it too.
We all come from someone else, and they all did as well.
All actions rise from actions past, but the beginning none can tell.
The best we know is naught but what we’re told, from time before our ken.
Beware: don’t swallow everything you’re told; you don’t know where it’s been.
Filled with incredulity inspect each written word; see what’s in and what’s left out, the
Only surety lies in doubt. Until you see at days long last, we haven’t knowledge of the past.
If all we know is what we’re told, e’n lies are worth their weight in gold. For I’d find it rather
Odd indeed, if cold hard fact is what we need. As times must change do we also, and so
Must change what we must know. A bit of truth is all we need to grant ourselves security.
That armies fought we can be sure, it matters not what cloth they wore. The broadest
Strokes are all it takes to record history’s mistakes, then the worthy poet may
Take the lead, with all the license she may need; to tell a tale in much
Fairer lights, to the generation to whom she writes. “But what of
Truth?” the purist cries. “Is our world now built on naught
But lies?” Is truth itself in the beholder’s eyes?
Or is it a virtue we now