Truth

What is truth? asked Pilate, philosophically,
and thus was doomed never to know it.
Judicious, patient, never overbearing,
he could weigh the issues, he could discuss them
in a mild voice. I guess he'd raise it sometimes,
after too much wine, with friends —
but we have access only to his public self,
trying to do what's right, even
(let's be fair) what's democratic.
And he tries a compromise
(the scourging — that was his idea).
But the people make their choice. He thinks:
"I cannot stop it. I can feel the waves
even up here. Something
is happening. There is this man,
scourged, bleeding, mocked.
What can I do? There are so many,
so many truths, so many courses.
Sometimes I think a man is foolish
to believe in anything.
Let it go. This man is not to blame.
I find no fault in this just man.
Nor in me, nor in anyone!"
He washes his hands. He is like us.
He is only human. He cannot know what truth is.
Sometimes it rises up from the dead,
in dreams, an angry outburst,
a razor at the throat. There is no comfort then
in being only human.


Published in Writers Forum, Fall 1985