In a bitter chiselling winter gust,
Dusty flecks of snow whirl about in the air around me,
Enveloping my figure in a spiral of white,
While I wait impatiently for my bus to appear on the horizon.
Bored and chilled to the bone,
I scrape up a rough pile of greyed snow,
Delicately shape it with my clunky boots,
Smoothly rounding out the sides into a fat cylinder, and
Gently patting down on soft surface until it’s nice and flat.
Still there is a tiny chink at the edge where loose snow chipped off.
Try as I might, I cannot block up the tedious gap.
It's almost perfect - just with one small flaw.
Just like me.
Me, the perfectionist, who likes, wants, needs everything to be absolutely perfect.
Me, the perfectionist, who will not, cannot, break this never-ending cycle.
Me, who, despite my perfectionism in my work, is not perfect in life.
Me, whose one rather large flaw is perfectionism itself -
Did someone craft me as did I the snow castle?
Did they try to perfect me as I tried to?
Were they satisfied with me,
Even with my many flaws?
Will you see me,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem