You would have joy,
if you gave joy to others as if to yourself,
if you rounded your circle to rejoice others,
and not to torture yourself
by catching yourself on your fish hook.
Joy is not in your possession,
it is the southern wind of simple buds and blossoms
or the northern wind in the crystals of the diamond cold.
You are a wind that blows, not the spring.
You are a wind that blows,
always betraying you on the corners of your life.
When it howls, you will want a storm
to calm your crystals.
But it is enough to be just what you are,
a blade of grass in the cold, waiting for the southern wind.
And the voice of the one crying in the wilderness
is becoming quieter and quieter,
as the storm of the modern symphony of arbitrariness
in the hands of man is slowly overlapping it.