Sometimes, on days of perfect and exact light,
When things are as real as they can possible be,
I slowly ask myself
Why I even bother to attribute
Beauty to things.

Does a flower really have beauty?
Does a fruit really have beauty?
No: they have only color and form
And existence.
Beauty is the name of something that doesn't exist
But that I give to things in exchange for
The pleasure they give to me.
It means nothing.
So why do I say about things: they're beautiful?

Yes, even I, who live only off living,
Am unwittingly visited by the lies of men
Concerning things,
Concerning things that simply exist.

How hard to be just what we are
And see nothing but the visible!

"XXVI A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe" ~ Fernando Pessoa