A happy person doesn't write a verse.
And verses seem to be some kind of illness.
A happy person has an even breathing,
As if heavenly eden was on earth.
His lungs are not suppressed by rhythmic blows,
When words and letters are extruded out,
And happy people never watch the poems,
So you don't need to read me, dear sirs!
And poets bring verses like on dishes,
And compliments are their expectation.
But happiness - it is gold in a minute,
When speech grows numb after an exultation.