Different Truth

Bear with me for a moment. Imagine a world where rulers weave a tapestry of half-truths, neither bound entirely by honesty nor wholly consumed by deceit. Society clings to its traditions, unwilling to stretch its mind beyond what it has always known. The people—oh, the people—blindly walk the path paved for them, unaware of where it truly leads.

Not so hard to imagine, right? Perhaps because we already live in such a world, and the unknown remains a stranger to us.

In the 17th century, amidst the fog and filth of London, there lived a queen who had little love for deception. It wasn’t that she had never lied, but she despised the weight of untruths, the way they twisted and turned, coiling around the throat like a silent serpent. Her husband, the king, found her views naive, impractical. They argued often—battles fought with words rather than steel, yet equally wounding.

Oh, why the lies?

Why does truth whisper through the trees,

Like a ghost in hollowed leaves?

Why does snow wear a crimson veil,

Is it the blood, or does white itself bleed?

I know the truth ignites—

I have worn its fire, searing bright.

I know it carves through bone,

Yet still, I will not turn to stone.

For how can I trade the dawn for night,

When I have held the burning sun?

How can I drown in veils of silence,

When I was born where echoes run?

The quarrels between the king and queen became like an old, worn-out tune—so frequent they lost their sting. Indifference settled between them like dust on forgotten parchment. The king sought solace in riches, drowning himself in gold and power. The queen, young and restless, found companionship among her servants.

One day, a desperate couple approached her. They bowed low, offering their 17-year-old daughter as a maid, pleading for the girl to find shelter in the palace walls. The queen studied the girl carefully.

What a creature of grace and dust,

With twilight eyes and lips of rust.

Her hands, like echoes of toil and time,

Her gaze uncertain—yet vast, yet divine.

A porcelain doll with cracks of light,

Drifting through fate, yet poised for flight.

A whisper of thunder behind her stare,

A secret unspoken—waiting somewhere.

At nineteen, the queen was surrounded by women who were either too old to befriend or too polished to confide in. Courtly princesses shared her rank, but never her heart. Yet, this girl, this maid—she was different. Their nights unravelled in whispered confessions, laughter muted by flickering candlelight. They spoke of husbands, of families, of burdens carried like invisible chains.

“Your troubles are greater than mine, my queen,” the girl often said. But the queen saw it differently. Perhaps the maid simply did not grasp the depth of her own suffering. When she asked why her parents had sent her away, the answer was bitter.

They split the path where my God should tread—

One road for kings, one stained in the church's bed.

But where does divinity truly walk?

Which road will guide me back to dawn?

And what of the war tax carved in stone?

Coin for blood, gold for bones.

They swear we're safe in hollowed breath,

That an empty stomach is kinder than death.

The queen had not seen suffering before. She had never witnessed sickness, death, and war. But something about this girl’s pain—silent, unspoken, wrapped in quiet resignation—struck her differently. She took her concerns to the king, expecting him to listen and care.

He did not. Instead, he dismissed her words as distractions, a queen’s foolish sentimentality. Love, if ever there was any left between them, had withered into duty.

The solution? The queen would leave for Denmark, taking the girl with her.

While the king sought a new wife to strengthen his rule, the queen in Denmark sought something greater—an understanding of life itself. Her thoughts bloomed into words, and soon, they became whispers in the streets.

I am the dreamer of this world,

And the dream bends to my will.

The light does not tell me it is morning,

I decide when the day begins.

If the world is a storm, then I am the wind,

If the world is a prison, then I hold the key.

What I mean is—the world is yours,

If fate turns cruel, make its kindness yours.

You shape the sun, you carve the time,

Don’t lose the fight to sorrow’s chime.

But the world was not ready for her thoughts. Words, when they spark too brightly, are often mistaken for flames. The whispers reached the king’s ears, twisted and tangled by frightened tongues. He summoned the queen and her maid back to London.

She stood before the court, speaking the same truths she had spoken before. But truth, when placed before men of power, is often seen as rebellion. The king, desperate to regain control, turned to the one force greater than his crown—the Church. The pope arrived, solemn and cold. His judgment was swift.

It was the maid. The maid was the cause. A witch, he declared. The queen was merely a victim of her sorcery. A woman who speaks beyond her place, who influences men, who dares to challenge the world? Surely, only a witch could make a queen so unruly.

We curse the witch for speaking loud,

But not the man who burns her down.

We set the world in righteous flames,

Then weep when fire calls our name.

We preach of peace with swords in hand,

And silence those who take a stand.

We carve out graves to build our thrones,

Then wonder why we die alone.

A world of madness, veiled and sworn,

Where justice bows to crown and scorn.

Yet still, we name the fire bright,

And call the dark the hand of light.

They burned the maid before the queen’s eyes, and something in her died that day.

The court believed it was the witch’s final curse. That her magic had shattered the queen’s spirit. But was it magic, or merely the unbearable weight of understanding?

And now, I ask you—who was truly to blame?

The people, so innocent in their blind faith?

The pope, wielding his power like a blade?

The king, threatened by the mind of a woman?

The queen, who dared to see beyond her world?

Or the maid, who spoke her truth to someone beyond her reach?

I do not offer answers. I only tell stories.

Dweep Goyal

Meet the Author:

A writer who seamlessly blends poetry and prose, crafting emotionally raw, philosophically rich stories that challenge perception, identity, and human nature itself.