All the sceptic noses— flat or pointed
Are shrivelled as something wrong in the air
Surprisingly all hands— black or red
Close their ears as something harsh to hear.
Suddenly all heads—block or inquisitive
Turn down as reluctant to feel and see
And finally all feet— lame or sportive
Run to avert something scaring and flee.
‘’Please don’t run away’’ cries out the stranger
‘’I want to change you all’’ he utters
‘’Don’t be afraid, I am not a beggar,
Realize me, I am the truth’’ he mutters.
Alas, the poor truth is miserably left alone
No one returns to hear or bear it
And care it sympathetically as their own,
As to them, it is quite obsolete and unfit.
A noise reverberates in the air and the sky
Some lunatics approach to the fallen truth
A samba they dance and sing to pacify
The truth, lift it and sneak to their booth.