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.