Perhaps,
I should dig a hole.
Not too wide, not too deep.
And then,
Into the hole i will whisper,
The four words i mustn’t.
Next i will cover it with soil and wait,
Until the green blades of grass appear.
The breeze will swing them to and fro,
And the dance will reveal,
the secret that seeps out from the sheath.
Away with the wind it’ll go,
up to the sky, rendezvous in the clouds.
There, as the storm starts brewing,
it will melt with each drip; each tear
the sun sucked up from the earth.
And finally, down it will go,
pouring in a mizzle or deluge.
One way or another it’ll reach you,
and maybe then,
it’ll tell you the clandestine truth.
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