My mother said my legs are boorish
and I am diluted as I resemble a shell.
She said I looked like a lizard,
that I do not need to fix myself and look in the mirror
because no matter what I do,
I look ugly.
They say every mother thinks that her daughter is pretty,
but mine is different,
she thinks I look terrible.
I am not even the ugly duckling,
I do not turn into something beautiful;
I am no fairy tale,
I am no happy ending.
But see . . .
watch me
slowly . . .
as my large wings perplexed.
The ashes in it
turn into glittery stars,
porcelain pearls and poignant plums,
little splattering brooch and trinkets;
gloaming,
beaming sprinkles
into my flawless snowy white glass skin.
My strong slightly curved bill
can alluringly kiss,
it forms a heart—
with someone who loves me
for who I am,
even before I am not pretty.
With someone who loves me
the most
even before—
he thinks I am pretty.
With someone I love
and will always do.
But watch me . . .
slowly . . .
and gently,
not just recreate—
but turn this lore
into something new.
Gape my long immaculate outstretched straight neck—
around the lake rush,
bathed with sparkles from sunlight;
seeing the others resent me
because they are not me.
But watch me . . .
slowly,
gracefully . . .
and breathlessly
dance in the rhythm of music.
Majestically poised
into the fresh cold water splashing,
I fly in low wingbeats elegance;
wavering in full musing of daydreams,
dancing in the rhythm of music.
You used to stop playing Tchaikovsky's music,
you thought,
it did not have much applause.
Now you realize,
it is not just the music that has to be monumental,
but also—
who dances to it.
But notice . . .
when I look down?
In the water—
what’s more to see?
But the casting reflection
of my seamless beauty.
I do not want to be drowned
by my own appearance,
I am not defined by it.
I am . . .
I am not.
I am . . .
I am not just an ordinary duck.
I am ordinary
in my own way.
“His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck’s nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan's egg.”
“He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him.”
“I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”
— Hans Christian Andersen, The Ugly Duckling
