Is perfection after all the biggest mirage ever to be formed
Or is there a constellation of perfect things in the world
A statue in a distant museum that couldn’t be chiselled better
A poem in a brittle book that touched the apex of imagination
Or perhaps a romance saturated with all the love in the world?
Is there one, or one too many things in the world truly perfect
Or is perfection really the most impossible conquest of humankind?