Both the Truth and the liars are hidden
And will not come forth to speak unbidden
By necessity’s will or convenience,
Unless called for by fakery of sense.
At the bottom of a stinking dry well —
Half way, the easy half, from here to Hell —
Where nakedness — dear Truth — shivers and sighs —
Will Emptiness stitch golden clothes of lies.
He emerges to strut in his glory.
Every sentence he spouts is a story.
The Truth, her bruised body cleansed at least,
Climbs out to the reception of a beast.
They beat and rape her, drag her by her hair,
Throw her back into the well, her dark lair.
