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The whispered promise etched in ancient stone,
"Truth shall prevail," a seed divinely sown.
A beacon burning in the darkest night,
A guiding star, a testament to right.

We cling to it, a lifeline in the fray,
When shadows lengthen and the honest stray.
We build our laws, our faiths, our moral code,
Upon this bedrock on this hallowed road.

Yet history whispers tales of twisted tongues,
Of innocence condemned, of righteous lungs
Gasping for air against the crushing lie,
Where power flourished, and the just could die.

The victor's pen rewrites the battles fought,
Distorting motives, lessons dearly bought.
The gilded cage can silence honest plea,
And popular delusion sets truth free...

To wander lost, a phantom in the mist,
Its clarity obscured, its essence kissed
By compromise, by fear, by self-deceit,
A bitter harvest, sorrowful and bleak.

For truth, though potent, is a fragile thing,
Demanding courage, voices that will sing
Against the chorus of the self-assured,
Whose vested interests keep the light obscured.

So does it triumph, finally and whole?
Or falter, fractured, losing its control?
Perhaps it lingers, wounded and unseen,
A buried ember, waiting to convene.

The question hangs, a weight upon the air,
A constant challenge, a persistent care.
For truth's prevailing is not fate's decree,
But the relentless striving of you and me.

And in that striving, in that endless quest,
Lies the true measure putting us to test.
For truth alone may not inherently win,
But its potential lives where we begin.

©bfa041425

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