You write of happiness

when all inside you've died;

everything you've touched,

all you've ever tried.

You write of happiness

when everything is gloom.

Black wings scrape your window,

trees barren of bloom.

For when you are happy,

you're too happy to write;

all that bubbles out

is pointless and trite.

But when black sadness

sits upon your soul

and into dark corners

you protectively crawl,

shadow memories of

lost happiness wake:

Oh what pretty rhymes

those memories will make.

So heart filled with gloom

- bony hands round your throat -

with tears in your eyes

'bout past happiness you gloat.

© P. J. Oszmann (1950 [in Hungarian] Translated: 1965; Revised; 2003. Illustration (scraperboard): 1966.)