The truth is there
in the morning dew, the evening mist,
in the careful tread of the deer
in the curled bud of a rose.
The truth is in beseeching hands,
reaching from the waves.
The children with death in their eyes tell it best,
and the mighty forest, no more than a raw scar.
The truth is in the melting icecaps,
the cows that never walk on grass,
the children forced to take up arms
and kill parents and siblings.
The truth points its finger at us
every minute of every day,
its dance macabre darkening the noonday sun,
empty ribs casting shadows on the sand,
on the pavements, on our faces,
but we are what we are—
none so blind as those who will not see.