What is the taste of happiness, ask the trees rooted in tale
What is the taste of happiness, ask the trees rooted in tale,
And the wind brings on southern wings answers hidden in crests.
Is it sweet, like golden apples from immortal orchards,
Or bitter, like the wine from cups of kings long gone?
Its color lies hidden in the palette of shy dawns,
Or perhaps it hides in the venom of fiery, impassioned nights.
Does it shine, golden, in fragments of azure dreams,
Or is a soothing blue, reflected in the lake without its match?
A fascinating weave, on the loom of the fleeting moment,
Happiness paints itself in unsettled hues, ever-changing.
Like the dew on the soul of a flower opening at dawn,
Or the tearing pain of a leaf lost in the autumn wind?
Like the whispers of the forest, which knows the world's ancient secrets,
It speaks in the language of falling stars and moonless nights.
Happiness charges the air with the magic of an earthly echo—
A song of simplicity, rising and getting lost among the clouds.
Beyond our sphere, jade rivers murmur, bathing dozens of worlds,
Happiness flows, leaving its imprint in the heart of every speck of stardust.
We must drink it thirstily, as an elixir of eternity,
Just as leaves absorb their fate alongside the sunlight.
The taste of happiness, a corolla blooming at the end of consecrated roads,
Sprouts from depths, seeking light, shyly unfolds.
Its color is a mosaic stretched across the sky, from sunsets to dawns.
A silvery droplet in the ocean of blue—a dance of freedom.
In every story born from the hand of a dreamer,
Happiness vibrates in unison with the heart of the world, on a celestial harp.
We only understand it when silence wraps us in its heavenly cloak,
And in the sacred quiet, the taste and color of happiness are revealed.
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