I do not fear perfection,
It does not touch my soul.
Pretty things do not inspire,
They burn fast and soon turn cold.

I could write a thousand songs
For the blooming, auspicious rose.
But a thousand songs I'd waste,
And never would I grow.

A lovely **** is a flower,
An ugly flower a ****.
All the stories told and weaved,
And still I wonder what they mean.

I do not fear perfection,
I do not sing for queens.
I fear the silent beauty,
The humanity between