Climbing up, yet going down

Also I am capable of happiness
I know                    I remember it, 
Like dew on a leaf, lined in light
tough fog, silent, covers all.

I am the moist moss, bending
though not from wim - but heavy sorrow.

And I am the fog too,
only hanging forgetfully.

And I think I am the ground, too,
soil ground, worms are my dearest
friends. Those, that like satellites blink
to me and say, what, I cannot hear.

But I used to be happy too,
maybe I'll remember soon.