I wouldn't call it happiness,
but rather an impression -
as when a seal-ring or a bezel
meets a bed of blood-warm wax
that faithfully records the moment's
impulse in intaglio,
the way masks signal
archetypes
in ancient plays.
Contours of a hare or Hermes,
Aphrodite's Erotes
imprint the ephemeral,
haunting as love found and lost.
Don't ask me what it means -
listen to their dialogues -
emissaries of Imeros:
shadow, substance,
image, flesh…
Soul in thrall to endless quest -
can this be - tell me - happiness?