the lines in the air are imperfect
they imprint my eyes
my eyesight that I can touch
imperfectly, feeling its flawed lines.
this poem is unfinished
its imperfect words
contain its whole meaning untold.
as imperfect as everything
as partial as my blue sight.
I paint infinitely with imperfections
meaning quivering in my ears
unwritten, bereft of any contemplative mind
I cannot help wondering
who has written this poem deficient.
Our love, too, is imperfect
jostled among unconfessed distances
imperfection wafts gently in the words I love you
on the branch of a tree
pecked firmly in its beak by the raven.
yet away imperfectly grained lies the tomb
the bitter-sweet earth stuck in our teeth
beyond yet away
rises up imperfection’s own looking glass tumbled
held in its fingers of light
how beautiful thou art, imperfection!
Lucia Daramus is a Jewish Romanian writer who is living in England, an translator, and an artist whose works demonstrate her fascination with archaeology, history of antiquity, quantum physics, numbers, and philosophy. Daramus has obsession for numbers and ideas, she has paranoid schizophrenia and Asperger’s Syndrome. Her poetry reflects the deep meaning of life. She is published in some magazines in Romania, France, Germany, England , Canada, USA etc.