Garments of half-truths keep our ignorance warm

Surviving until we can no longer hold onto name and form

Each garment sowed to individual specifications

Forming identities through which were born nations

We have never seen what’s under our garment

It’s the only version of the truth, it will not torment

We are afraid of shedding half-truths, they can be bent

Into any form, that sends happiness into an ascent

If we huddle as one, we will be warm

Enough to shed half-truths which have done great harm

There’s one version of the truth, it can’t be converted to a form

It may be found if we are willing to quietly reform

By not giving half-truths our eyes, ears, and tongue

The garment we wear can finally be hung

Life isn't interested in our half-truths, they are seeds of stone

Unlike the potent one of truth which waits alone