When we were young, we used to believe that the world is beautiful and perfect, just the way bedtime stories would tell us: of princes and princesses, tall towers and dragons and true love.
When we became older, we learned that the world is imperfect. There are no charming princes or princesses locked in towers; there are no dragons and true love is often a farce. Misery is real, and so is death and hatred. People kill and get killed, hurt and get hurt. The innocent are oppressed while the unjust live luxuriously in sky-high buildings, sipping champagne and doing whatever they please.
When we become older, we become disillusioned in the face of adversity. We lose track of who we are as we vainly make our way in this cruel world. What we often forget, however, is that though the world is imperfect, it is still beautiful.
It is beautiful in the air that we breathe, the light that shines from the sky and in the life that majestically surrounds us. The world is broken but still beautiful; beautiful in the sight of a new-born child grasping out for his mother, beautiful in the eyes of a falcon as it soars through sky, beautiful like a glorious rainbow after a terrible storm. Beautiful, like ribbons of paint streaked across canvas; beautiful, like lilies brought ashore by tumbling waves; beautiful, like snow fallen on evergreen trees in mid-December.
The world is cruel and the world is imperfect but it is still beautiful, because even imperfections are perfect in the right angle and in the right moment.
The Dinosaur Shikshin 