快乐仿若诗人湫隘的茅屋里蓝色的窗棂,跃动着它轻灵的翅膀,在诗人的户外——在这幽静的天籁里张扬它袅娜的舞蹈:轻盈,旖旎,微透着生机,与春日的和煦融成一片……问快乐,你快乐否?——快乐答:我快乐。但诗人不快乐。诗人病了,在一旁边静默边恹恹地喘息。他斜倚着残旧的窗阶,看着烂漫的蔷薇。他的眼神是委靡颓伤的,那蔷薇的冶艳分外显出他的无神。他正躺着抽一根没点着的烟,望户外的春日的嬉闹,仿佛末日前上演的欢乐的悲剧。 Happiness is like a blue window in the hut of a poet, moving its light wings, outside the poet’s - in this secluded heaven, to show its graceful dance: lightness, envy, sensational vitality, and The Harmony of Harmony melts into one...Whether you are happy or not? Happy? Answer: I am happy. But the poet is not happy. The poet was sick, breathing quietly beside him. He reclined on the old window and looked at the rosy roses. His eyes are euphemistically flawed, and the glorious beauty of his roses reveals his atheism. He was lying down and smoking a cigarette that was not lit. He looked out at the springtime of the outdoors. It seemed like a happy tragedy before the end of the day.