Truth

Memories of that golden hour

When truth was just a little bird.

Who did not need to strive for power

And dismissed a claim that it’s absurd.

*

Who cast away every mock

With a soft brush of its wing.

And never froze or stopped in shock

When lies began to sing.

*

Who hopped from tree to tree

And left a feather behind

Which fell so man won’t see,

But if they’d search, they’d find.

*

Glory on that youthful head

Who chases it galore.

To me, truth grew wings and fled,

Now birds mean something even more.