Perhaps someday the time of your naiveté will fade,
and you’ll be blessed with wisdom, endlessly laid,
Hearing and grasping one secret, great and discreet:
In every heart, a different truth beats —
no common truth to meet!

And the words of justice sound:
“Act with honesty, not kindness or mercy abound.”
But, you know, there’s no justice to be found,
and fairy tales of it are only ancient delusions, unsound.

All justice may equal but a single opinion’s might,
and truth itself crumbles under a mere breath’s flight,
of the look of one who preaches and knows truth outright:
All people hold the thread of truth, keeping it in sight;
Everyone clutches tightly this ball of vibrant threads,
And, from these strings, everyone's truth is made.
Spinning a pattern complex and wondrous to behold:
To some, it's truth; to others, a shame untold.

And everyone will rush with these balls as with a sieve,
from which, supposedly, not a drop is spilled
from the lake of truthfulness and justice’s whims,
where only the silt of barefaced lies can be skimmed.

No need to weigh down neither me nor yourself with sayings
that truth shall be with you in all your layings.
There are opinions, created from envy or mere delusion,
Yet one can believe in things that are, in fact, an illusion.
From beliefs like these, the skeleton of the human soul is set.
And it will persist as long as humanity is let.