No Happiness Here2

I could tell of a land devastated by fear and intolerance of stones that have stood still for generations and that are now swept away by the current this wouldn't explain the violence of the storm of last night and nothing remains but the shelf of old portraits on the dresser and my ghosts watching me I mustn't deceive myself saying that the doors have locks and that the old building will withstand the tenderness of solitude and the prayers in detachment but I still look at the trinkets swaying their heads and the old advertising jingles where the poet tirelessly asks: “what makes you happy?” I could romanticize and answer hesitantly that perhaps the singer of the song I didn't write or some vagabond I call by name would harden the penis I don't have or anyone could make me happy but the torturous lucidity made me dismiss my children, my name, and my honor and if even my house no longer serves me what's wrong with confessing in silence that there is no happiness here?