How treacherous they are —

The dreams that engulf us

With promises of future success.

We dance on the rubble —

Always close to crashing down

And hitting the pavements of reality.


To a certain degree

We are children of decay and failure.

Love seems everything to us

And yet is nothing

To count on, rely upon;

Just an image that shines

Like neonlight, like fireworks.


Appearance is all-embracing:

Desires, politics, looks; life.

It’s like passing through a dream:

Rose-coloured, delusory.

It really would be ridiculous

If it wasn’t already there

Like in a film or a play.


We expect so much

And yet it’s insignificant:

What we long for, await, want —

Just a clown’s laugh:

False, overdone, artifical.

But it is real — nonetheless.