What is True

What is true doesn't throw sand in your eyes,
what is true, sleep and death refuse you
as inveterate, advised of every pain,
what is true moves the stone from your grave.

What is true, so sunken, so washed out
in germ and leaf, in the lazy bed of the tongue
a year and another year and every year -
what is true doesn't make time, it makes up for it.

What is true makes a parting of the earth,
combs out dream and wreath and the order,
it swells its crest and full of picked fruit
it hits you and drinks you up.

What is true doesn't go unnoticed until the robbery,
where you might be all about.
You are his prey at the opening of your wounds;
nothing overwhelms you that does not betray you.

The moon is coming with the denatured jars.
So drink your measure. The bitter night falls.
The scum flocks to the feathers of the pigeons,
not a branch is brought to safety.

You are stuck in the world weighed down by chains
but what is true drives cracks into the wall.
You wake up and see what's right in the dark,
facing the unknown exit.