Truth by Pavithra K. Mehta

I went questing for truth in the world like a knight, 

with set jaw and drawn sword. 

Ready to scale mountains and slay dragons in their dens. 

As if truth were a phlegmatic princess, 

captive, inert and awaiting deliverance. 

I found it not. 

I went haggling for truth in the marketplace

 like a shrill housewife, beady-eyed and tight of fist. 

Trading insults and scorn. 

As if truth were a loaf of bread 

or a ruby-red pomegranate to bargain for. 

I found it not. 

I went begging for truth like a vagabond, 

with bare feet, tangled hair and a piteous expression. 

As if truth were a susceptible kinsman 

with philanthropic tendencies. 

I found it not. 

So weary with questing, and barter and plea, 

emptied by failure I called off the search. 

Leaned my forehead against the window, 

and looked out on a moonless night, too tired for thought. 

I watched as the stars came out, 

like so many lights on so many distant porches. 

I stood as quiet witness. 

And I do not know why somehow this — was enough.