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Maybe life is not as complicated
as we make it.

Maybe life is really
a line of swallows before autumn,
an acacia tree in bloom,
a cup of coffee in the sun.

Maybe happiness was always something small,
and we were simply looking for it
in the wrong places.

Because some people find it
in a house full of voices,
in familiar streets,
in a peace that lasts for years.

And others search for it
in distant places.

In dreams.

In someone’s eyes.

In something
that was never entirely theirs.

And while some protect
what they have,

others protect
what they dream about.

And yet,

both fall asleep
beneath the same moon.

Both, at times,
wish for more.

Maybe that is why it is pointless
to measure someone else’s happiness.

Because what is enough for one person
is too little for another.

And what someone longs for
their entire life,

someone else
may never even notice.

So I no longer ask
why life is this way or that.

I no longer ask
why it gives easily to some
and only in small portions to others.

I simply watch the years pass
and learn one thing:

that happiness does not always arrive
in the shape we imagined.

But it arrives.

Quietly.

Like spring.

And it settles
wherever we open the door for it.