an apology for the mistake of speaking truth

I said, the fox of time is much shrewd
he explained
all these infant-enterprises are only plays
further I added, the tall sky is also an illusion
one day our Everests of vanity and conceit
will be crushed by the hurricane of time

but the players of illusion disagreed
they said that the real is
only the dream of falsehood
and they like to hear only
that falsehood of my truth
they prefer to laugh
when I cry with my songs

the dramatist-pleaders
and the character-sinners
are halted surrounding me

I degrade with every rubbing of my pen
I write the apology
standing in the court of untrue

this modernized multiplex is of what sort
where unreal is the body
and real is the copy
of what sort are these dreaming/waking moments
where material is relative
and soul is stranger

illusions, truths, songs and questions are
counted as plays by the ascetic of creation
I said, the puzzling of myself is also a mistake
these entire speeches and acts
are not more than a dream
but they do not agree with me
it seems that this rejection is also a game
the game is also the act of writing this apology
truth/untruth all are
the infinite game of time-song.