"Vérité" means "truth" in French. This poem/story dictates the life of a medieval truth. |
“Clouds of morning sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he said with a broken smile. Climbing through vines of omnipresent doom, Knowing that death was by his side, ready and willing To grasp him by his chiseled should and shake him asleep, He smiled. An odd, bittersweet smile. The twist of his lips spoke Of truth, of a treacherous luminous tale, yet to be told Yet to be seen. And so he rode, that man, And fought, overpowering every evil obstacle Saving man and child and beast alike. After rescuing soul after miserable soul He stood alone, his sword lying lame In the weeds and wet orange leaves And he looked to the sun He looked to the sun The glowing halo of dusk in the sky And the curl of his lip was rueful Yet slightly amused with the world. “Rays of afternoon sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he whispered. Sinking to his knees, His hands curled around the auburn leaves. They bent languidly to his touch. A burst of sunlight, and he was alone A silhouette, crouching on the ground. Day after day, he defended the weak And protected the helpless fops Rescued the maidens, swooped for a child And never offered a word. And no one questioned. For in this twisted world of ours, We find ourselves seldom questioning The blessings and heroes that come our way In the moments of darkness. We take miracles for granted. As was he. And so he died, After a marvelous duel against an evil monarch And striking down his enemy But his wounds weakened him, He collapsed alone in a field. When looked up, At the stars that grew dimmer with every moment and every quiver of his eyelids, He smiled through his blood and tears, Through the coursing pain of his slowing heart, “Stars of night sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he choked. “For this world within I am dying is full of good, and full of truth. They did not see me, but I saw them.” Even as he died, A victim of a merciless tyrant, He smiled. An odd, bittersweet smile. The twist of his lips spoke Of truth, of a treacherous luminous tale, told to naught but himself That had been seen But never given a second glance. Hours later, he was discovered Under a drying oak tree. Then he was buried, in an unmarked grave Under that oak tree. No one remembered his name, And those who laid him to rest, Wondered; Who was he? They piled the grave with sod, Never knowing that he, The dead man under the oak tree, Was their liberator scores of time over How he saved them from ruin And death, a fate he himself knew was coming. His name was buried under the withering oak tree, His secret died with him under the stars, Under a moon of ivory, Under stars of night sky. |