[The truth, which is yours, is not free]
By Natasha Bredle
Which is only because you are not free.
The truth gnaws away at restraints.
The truth gathers up and collects.
It stands, unmoved, in the fire. Or it is the fire,
loving life. Preserving the bush, wrenching
the water two ways, wonders declaring
that this is glory: to belong to him. Unto ages.
The truth does not masquerade,
though it will be shunned, mocked
in staggering fury. The truth will stand, still,
and await your eyes. You will see one
of two things. You will see a temple,
bruised, pillars crumbling.
You will ask where the master went,
and they will say he is gone, sealed away
in gold chests like age-old curses.
Or, you will see
folded cloth in the wake of what seems stolen.
You will have many questions
for the gardener, but with a familiar voice,
he will only ask why you are weeping.