Nothing he told us was true.
But we wanted to hear it,
how we wanted to hear it.
We did everything we could
to get him to say it. He spoke
many languages, he cried out
like someone swept by the force
of veracity. So we put away all
our instruments. The rack, the bit,
the noose that had been
of use. And at last, broken
free of pain, his cries went forth
far beyond the unnamed city
while we stood at our windows
hearing the wind open pages
in the book of our shame.