You believe so ardently that you are not beautiful,
and that you could never, ever be
and the idea is so preposterous to you,
so laughable that, knowing this,
I do not wish for anything to be beautiful anymore.
I have no wish for azure skies and fluffy clouds,
or for blooming fields and waterfalls.
I have no use anymore,
for the rainy days I used to love,
for the thunderstorms and lightning bolts.
For if you cannot be beautiful,
then nothing else can be.
Because if you are not beautiful,
then nothing else is.
If you are not beautiful,
then Beauty does not exist.
But surely, surely, Beauty exists,
and you are beautiful.
But if the World insists,
if the World says that you are not beautiful,
then so be it:
the stars will be ugly,
the rising sun repugnant.
Eclipses will be boring,
and the ocean will be hideous.
If you cannot be beautiful,
then nothing else deserves to be.
If beauty such as your own
-the kind that shines through kindness and love,
that radiates from your very soul-
is not beautiful,
then I do not understand Beauty.
I do not understand the World.
And I will have no wish to,
because a world that says
that you are not beautiful,
cannot hold any beauty of its own.