EN
Imagine a room with four walls.
There is a door leading into that room,
or you can enter it via a ladder,
or through a trapdoor in the floor.
The room may have windows, but it doesn’t have to,
and it doesn’t even have to have any walls.
It might not even have a ceiling or a floor.
But that is beside the point now.
In the middle of this illusory room stands a table.
The kind of table everyone likes to sit at.
A solid table, though made of cheap wood.
And on that table stands a vase.
A vase made of not-so-high-quality clay,
but beautifully handcrafted, skillfully made.
That vase has one small flaw.
A crack has formed on its stout belly.
Water never stays in it longer
than it takes for a blackbird to sing its song and fly away.
If that vase could have a desire,
it would long for a flower,
but every flower placed in it,
whether by chance or on purpose,
would wither by the next day.
What good is beauty without life, without fragrance?
It is up to each person how they treat the vase.
Some give up in advance and say to themselves:
“Oh well, the vase itself is pretty,
let’s leave it at that.”
Others try in vain to seal the crack with clay.
Over time, the water washes the clay away
and only prolongs the flower’s suffering.
Some want to replace the old vase
with a brand-new crystal vase.
Reflections of the sun’s rays
off the edges of the cut glass
cast all the colors of the rainbow onto the table.
But what of the simple flower?
Is its modest beauty not perhaps
outshone by the beauty of the vase?
Does it not stand in contrast
with the cheapness of the wooden table,
whose legs, over time,
have cracked into bizarre shapes
due to the sun, rain, or wind?
The table is here for the clay vase,
the vase is here for the flower,
and there are many, many forms of joy.
