false

There's a bitter Eastern Wind
That tosses golden leaves
And plants the unborn tree
In deep, unknowing soil;

Is the fertile land
Aware that in its hands
Are placed by fiery wind
The protégé of Hope?

No.

After darkened hours of ceaseless swirls
Of mind-plays seize my eyes and stop my sleep;
And just before the gentle night is slain,
An army of songs is set upon the day.
Do these wondrous feathered songs burst forth
From knowing hearts that recognize their worth?
And do they sing for me, their weary crowd,
Who hangs on every note and ponders each?

No.

Did ancient likes of man
Ink walls intent on aid
For modern study's use?
Those grand and eerie shapes,
Those ancient mental maps
Of man's first steps;
Were they for us?

No.

Nature knows no need for pleasing
Any senses of its greatest minds;
How, pray how! can man defend
Its desperate, constant quest for
Glory? Can we?

No.

Does this fit nature; Eastern Winds;
Fertile land; blustered seed;
Crying birds; ancient man?

No. Like the birds' depthless melody
A writer of Truth is never bound
By human whim; am I?

Yes. Mine.

Wisdom?

No.