La realidad de esa existencia no es tan real como se ve...La perfeccion no existe...

The Garden of Love

William Blake

Laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping;

I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, weeping.
Then I went to the heath and the wild,

To the thistles and thorns of the waste;

And they told me how they were beguiled,

Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen; A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut

And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and desires.