I suffer from cold fits when I hear of money.

Does a poet need money? Does he understand it?

They ask if I want to sell my house, my car,

how many dollars do I want for them.

I rarely remember if they are mine, 

or how much had I paid for them, if so. 

They do not know how impertinent they are. 

Should I value my things, my labor, my time, 

or, by chance, my life?

People cannot understand poet’s measures.

Is it possible they do not know that they are   

the human happiness, 

a plain smile 

and permanent beauty’s ravishment?