In this world, the artificial and the
Real mix, and sometimes it is hard
To distinguish one from the other,
So here is the gauge:
The artificial man does not bleed,
The real man does,
The real man is not afraid to love,
The artificial does not
The real flower has a dew and
Can be torn apart and gives off a scent
The artificial flower gives a blank
Stare at you
And there is no question thrown
Away
The plastic, the wax, the foam,
The flesh, the blood, the sweat,
The dust, the stiffness, the wires
The feeling, the softness, the veins
But you must beware, I may feel you
And you may feel me, but I can still
Be not real, but artificial in some subtle
Sense, in some secret ways, so what is
The real gauge this time? It is just you,
Be real yourself, and let them be, whatever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem