There is no beauty, truly.
The loveliest person
Never knows they are beautiful.
Their lovers do not have to be.
The rhetoric of seduction,
Is no proof of beauty,
Even when fruitful,
Even in the singing of the spring.
Beauty never rests in beauty,
For what if beauty, truly beautiful, should beautifully sing?
The territory of birds
Once vanquished, forever needs vanquishing.
If the bird never holds still,
How will we know beauty, or beauty’s will?
Neither flattery nor kindness
Care for beauty’s measure.
Lips will always deny
The eye’s treasure.
Even Venus, breasts bared,
Exciting the crowd, worries
That, in comparison to another’s,
Some part of her body is not quite right.
We argue down beauty, truly.
Beauty in the day is never beautiful at night,
And the least beautiful is beauty’s fame.
There is no beauty, truly,
Unless you speak of the soft breathing of the sky
When the dying sun softly colors cloud and atmosphere,
Which only shows there is no beauty down here.
There is no beauty, truly,
Except your beauty, which,
When named, is only a name.
