A hitherto unrevealed thing,
relative to which,
your doings are judged,
the deviations of your deeds from the, yet nebulous, so called, truth are measured, quantified and then given the deserving response.
God who hosts the truth,
who anchored this thing onto the cosmos,
forgets to install within us,
the ability to measure it, to predict it or to be certain about it.
Yet we act like we had always known it.
Truth might be old but is never our friend.
It is a stranger who can knock our souls at any time,
stretch its arms and ask us to fill it full.
We might even embrace it,
but wont this uncertainity, conjured out of our fated inability, remain
that the stranger who claims to be the truth,
is not the truth after all.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Truth by Bijay Poudel )
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