What is truth? he laughs, And turns his back, A final flounce, a sulky huff, The provincial honcho, His rabble-rousers angry, Too gridlocked to say What he really thought. What has he done? Got me up before breakfast, Set my ulcer off; This had better be worth it. The holy huddle’s cynical tug At his power-hungry heartstrings Leaves him unimpressed: King of the Jews? The thought is laughable. A backwards glance before he leaves the room: The man in question stands In silence, waiting, His not-of-this-world truth kingdom Nowhere to be seen here, save The disquieting strength In his firm-fixed gaze. Everyone on the side of the truth – Ha! the foolishness, the hubris – Listens to me. The door slams. The careworn governor storms outside, Where the words, unheard, still resound, A sharp clanging in his stubborn ears. What is truth? he shouts again To the swirling and the anger And the morning air And the biting accusation which Even his power cannot acquit.