Learning to live with rejection is a skill
that's hard to acquire and learning to love
imperfection is harder still for the trier.
The memos in the margin, the solo's one bum note,
the weeds in every garden, the frog in the
singer's throat.
The fluffed lines in the drama, the dancer out
of time, the guru with no karma, the poet with
no rhymes.
To me such things are treasures, yet all of them
are free, the proof of life's true pleasure,
our frail humanity.
The trouble with perfectionists is they never
anything done, they would quibble over guest lists
for the explosion of the sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brilliant, love it - there is no such thing as perfection, we are all subject to error.