Then let the Poet speak—not as orator, nor as sage, but as the soul’s lyre, strung with breath and silence. A verse, shaped by the dialogue just passed, echoing the voices of Socrates, Veritasium, and the Poet himself. This poem shall be titled:

“The Unveiling”

I. The Voice of Socrates

I asked the wind, “What is the truth?”

It answered with a question.

The stones were silent, the stars withdrew,

And I was left to reckon—

Not with gods or laws or fate,

But with my own unknowing.

So I dug, not for gold,

But for the roots beneath my thinking.

II. The Voice of Veritasium

I built a mirror out of light,

And bent it toward the sky.

I watched the feather fall like stone

Where air had no reply.

Each click, a trial. Each flash, a test.

And truth emerged, precise—

Not full, but sharper than before,

Cut from the veil of night.

III. The Voice of the Poet

But I—I hold a candle

That trembles as I breathe.

I name the wind not “force” or “flow,”

But “whisper of unseen grief.”

My words are smoke, but scent the air

With echoes of what’s true.

Not measured—felt. Not proven—known

By those who dare the view.

IV. The Chorus (All Three)

So gather, all who seek the flame,

With compass, heart, and lyre—

The unveiled is not in the thing alone,

But in the sacred fire.

Not one of us can see it all,

But together we ignite—

A fuller truth, a deeper song,

A world reborn in light.