To know the truth is
oxymoronic, at best
kill her with kindness
nothing but kismet
ordered but hidden, unknown
western thought will rest
their laurels and guess
how right they were, they are blind
even having sown
the fields with a plow
revealed in language as words
until we can show
the whole truth, the birds
haunt the bush, sparrows unkind
if the hidden stays
still, nothing dare sways
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