just write: the one that they call truth.

I was walking on the sidewalk
when I saw there, in full bloom
a pretty little flower growing,
the one that they call truth.

I plucked it from between the cracks
and carried it with me.
I took it out to show my friends,
so they could also see.

I told one or two about it,
and they told three or four.
as each one changed the story slightly,
the flower wilted more and more

and as I held it in its beauty,
it quickly crumbled into sand.
for even something as pure as truth
cannot last in human hands.