What is so imperfect here?

this one easily shows you

that a lighhouse,

a cow gate,

a new market,

or else

can shine in glory,

and turn into stunning beauty.

And who am I not to strive

to make perfect what is mediocre,

to withdraw my existence from the holy?

To not to make shine what's fading?

Not to liven up the wasted?

And all these with my only weapon:

true modesty