The truth is what we vainly seek - We know it to be good; So how can such a simple fact Be so misunderstood? Although we praise the worth of truth - Its purity adored; Despite our pitiful attempts To capture its reward, Its nature is a mystery, And nothing is revealed. Ironic that the truth we know Has untruth as its shield. Impure and harsh is what truth is - A skeleton of life. A shadow that, when given form Produces thus our strife. Yet fatal misconceptions lie Inside the heart of truth, Which has within its dying throes Sweet innocence of youth. Its mask disintegrates with death Revealing its true face - A barren plain, an empty room, A meaningless embrace.