When chattering pleasantly of causes,
It would appear that all of us agree—
However mysterious truth may be,
However often we fall for falsehoods,
However soon we become unpleasant
About some cause on which we disagree—
That there is a difference between what is
And isn’t, between facts and illusions.
Even those who write off our existence
As delusion seem to do so to draw
A distinction between maya and truth.
It’s hard to speak without the assumption
That some phenomena are actual
And some descriptions are unreal or lies.
Do we know this? I’m not sure that we do.
It’s a contrast we can’t converse without,
But it may be as much our creation
As is narrative, as are faith and doubt.
Could it be that there is nothing more real
Nor more deceitful than our conceptions
Of a universe full of fact and cause,
Dark with misdirection and occlusion?
If wonders were neither true nor untrue
Nor knowably neither, what would we do?
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