Perhaps we all cling to our own favourite fairy tale.
For some, it is a dream of unrequited love
that remains perfect
because it is unsullied by reality;
For others, it is the search that counts,
a need for a perpetual quest
for the love we desire
and which must be rejected
before it is tested
in case the quest ends in success;
For some, it is the languishing sense of loneliness
in the refusal to compromise
on a vision of impossible perfection;
For others, it is in poetically spurning
the happiness one has - or two have - or could have, with a little work,
until it is lost;
For yet others, it is the belief
that we can stuff our mouths with all the cake on the plate
which will magically replenish itself
without our help.
When will we all realise
that it is only
imperfection
that can heighten and lend character to perfection
and only we can make that so?
The choice is
a safe, lonely, passive dream
or precarious, active reality.
December 1998
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem