A few months ago I wrote a brief commentary on Nietzsche's work On truth and lies in a non-moral sense. An example of the seemingly infinite expressive power of poetry is the fact that the total content of that essay, and of my comments on it, is perfectly summarized in the opening verses of Mallarmé's Salut:
Rien, cette écume, vierge verse
A né désigner que la coupe
One could unroll the meaning of these verses for so long... but that would of course defeat their purpose.