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.

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