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.
