Happyness

Today I talk about Happiness.

Is it the merry whistling of the cuckoo birds drenched in snow?

Or the first rain of a sultry summer, making you plead for more?

I wonder if it lies deep within my sorrows

Or in the wistful Phantom’s ballads

Is it not made of John Keats’ Things of Beauty

Or the quiet of Mr Naruda?

In a mother’s heart, a child’s eyes and in a father’s shoulder

A happiness, long forgotten, grows older and bolder

For I wish to see stars on a cloudy night

And a clear blue sky when it rains

Happiness, for me, my child

Is a mere and coveted escape.