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?