He’s tired of lying lips; either someone else’s or his own, because they seem to bring nothing but trouble. He’s not sure whether it’s due to the place he lives in, or the time of day or history, but he knows such lips and tongues can be found whenever he follows the path of a burning arrow.
He’s a man for peace. He’d much prefer to lounge in the breeze of the dawning sun and make music while the sheep graze, but it seems that even this has turned him into a liar. After all, peace is a two-way relationship, and he can’t roll over and give up as if responsibilities and consequences don’t exist.
So now, whenever he tells a lie, he looks up slightly from his place on the ground, and wonders when (or if) he’ll be vindicated this time.