THE PRICE OF TRUTH

In the old garret of frayed memory,
Behind the spoon of dry-rotted wood,
Behind the old wardrobe, it will be found or next to the flaking
Wall in the dust
Of centuries. Perhaps it will be found beyond the pale gesture of an old
Hand of some beggar, or in the ruin of the soul
When everything has ceased.
I ask myself if the dusty road
Of tenacious doubt is necessary, the sudden fatigue
In the sterile plain beneath the sun of justice,
The ruin of all hope, the worn rag of fear, the invincible disquiet halfway along the path that leads to the ruined tower.
I ask myself if it is necessary to leave the high road
And take a left by the short cut and footpath,
As if nothing had remained behind in the deserted house.
I ask myself if it is necessary to go without wavering into the horror of the night
To penetrate the abyss, the wolf's mouth,
To journey back, backwards to negation,
Or reverse the truth, on the desolate road.
Or rather if the sob of dust in the confusion of a terrible summer is necessary,
Or in the confused alcoholic awakening with trumpets of sleep
To know oneself suddenly deserted completely, or rather,
If it is perhaps necessary to have been lost in the foul commerce of love,
To have contracted in the shadow an ideal
Bought for a price, a memory of light, a spell
Of daybreak behind the hill, towards the river.
I admit the possibility that it may be completely necessary
To have descended, at least sometime, to the depth of the dark building,
To have gone down uncertainly through the danger of the rickety stairs which threaten to collapse at our every step,
And to have penetrated finally with valour in the indignity, to the dark cellar

To have visited the place of shadow,
The territory of  the ash, where all vileness rests
Beside the patient cobweb. To have settled in the dust,
To have chewed it tenaciously in the long hours of thirst
Or of sleep. To have answered the silence
Or the final question
With courage or fear and there to have realized and rallied.
It is necessary to have understood by means of the offending truth
That assaults us in the middle of the night and suddenly keeps us awake and robs us
To the last cent. To have afterwards begged long days
Through the lowest areas of  oneself, without hope of recuperating the loss,
And finally, dispossessed, to have followed the right road and entered the absolute night with valour still.