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.


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