Falsehood

Falsehood
 
A single lie—
and the crowd rushes,
trampling each other.
In the crush,
a loose fist of silence slips,
truth breaks open.
 
Air carries its smell,
no censorship strong enough
to choke it back.
 
The civil war counted itself:
those who marched away,
those who limped back.
The difference—
a graveyard,
rows of unfinished names.
 
They killed men
for resisting,
for speaking against power.
Their bodies silenced,
dumped beneath the ground,
only to surface decades later—
skeletal testimonies
when a well was dug.
 
Falsehood works softly,
coating language in sugar,
and men return to it
because it is easier
than the mirror.
 
But time refuses mercy.
Dalí’s clocks,
though they melt,
never escape their axis.
 
So lies too—
they dangle,
forever hooked
to the rope of history,
forever visible
to those who dare
to count the dead.