What is beauty,
but a word to an end,
does it describe oneself,
so,
discreetly.
Does it prove a point,
securing the ideals,
of someone who,
pictures things,
neatly.
Does it mean,
all that much,
when we feel,
we've lost touch,
in this world,
that does end,
so,
completely.
And in what way,
is it important to the day,
we find our love,
our life,
our freedom.
Does the word lose it's measure,
when you've found a,
not-so-pretty,
treasure,
that you keep in your pocket,
all the time.
Is the word,
so important,
that it deserves it's own holiday,
and song with a rhythm,
and a rhyme.
What is beauty,
but a word,
in the end,
with no solitude,
or rights,
or freedom,
it's sits on a shelf,
alone with its,
narcissistic self,
and does die,
in due time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is a great point you are making in this poem, thought provoking, and it is very wise. You tell it like it is, for what it is. Like King Sholom said vanity, vanity, all is vanity Great write. :)