A flute of reed

The morning streets of town are
Mine.
The flower’s bloom in the yards is
Mine.
The dew spread over the grass
Is mine.

The herbs do magic
On their own,
The birds imitate
Classics and
The sun tells jokes
To me.

The morning river flows
For me,
The water makes me dizzy
From a distance
And the mountains
Tempt me with
Their pale nimbus.

The morning streets,
Mountains,
Rivers,
Lakes
Are mine.
If you walk with me,
Side by side,
Smiled,
They will be all yours
With all my heart.

There are people of this kind

The most unnoticeable one

You won’t hear them speaking loudly

They won’t push you in the crowd

They never stare at you offended

They only give you their hand

When you stumble on the knobby ground,

Or offer you a penny that is their last

To help you buying bread and milk

And if by mare accident

They just hear you mentioning …

They will take you to the Moon

Not because they are in love

Or  want to show that they are good

But because that’s their way

The nature of their hearts

A man I know from the local pub said to me the other day:

“Only stupid people have pride.”

His personal record is being 8 month drunk all the time until he has been working as a waiter in a roadside restaurant.

I like people that are easy going.
I hate to think all the time what to say in order not to hurt somebody.
I am a Sagittarius for Christ sake. How can I think before saying something?
So I can’t live with people whose Ego is at the size of cathedral.
This may mean than my Ego is not that small, but in fact I can forget myself easily and think mostly about the people I love.
I even suspect that this is the formula of happiness – thinking about the people you love and when they are well you are even better. Ego makes us feel miserable .... not that we can always be happy and not that the Ego is something evil ... but ...

Funeral Blues
W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My moon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Even in these days
I look for
The silent,
Perishable
Sadly-beautiful
And tender
Company
Of the flowers
Somewhere
Somehow
Something
Happens

"Will you be able to feel a supreme bliss if you have never felt supremely miserable?"

Sub-question:

"If the answer of the previous question is "no" would you be happy to pay the price of supreme misery in order to achieve supreme bliss"?

P.S. Does someone know how can I stop asking myself stupid questions?

... such a mood in which you feel good, bad, indifferent and passionate simultaneously?