Truth?
Truth.
Matters.
Doesn't it?
Even that found near?
Must truth be exotic and wild?
Must the wind of a not yet known place tangle my hair?
Must one have seen Moroccan mornings and Serengeti sunsets to understand truth?
Must one's tongue taste fear, relish new flavors, swallow foreign delicacies, speak in the songlike
lilt of untried words and
consonants and sounds?
Must one look upon all the colors of skin: the blueblack, the olive, the warm browns, tans, reds and oranges, the whites and the creams, the yellows and the gray? or into the amber eyes, the hazel and steel, blue and green, brown and black?
Must one find real truth only through witnessing the beauty and horror the world has to offer, bearing the best and the worst in
our souls? Or mightn't we find truth within the garrisons of our hearts? Can we look not on the behavior or color of another to
know what counts, to know about hate and love, to know within each of us lies the capacity for both?
