All aged efforts,
Going down the drain,
Dare with Intrepidity
To kidnap happiness.
Address isn't a spider
In the corner
Or somewhere else
Behind the door.
It's the wind,
Walking and wandering.
Whet thy kindness
To blandish,
And truss of thy neighbour,
Of a beggar, of a bride
Or of a playing child
With thy hope,
If you could see it
With any of them.
Remember,
It flies like the ghost.