Lonesome, under a smelly bridge, I sit and gaze at the hungry sparrows... My pen regurgitates words on a blank page, Sounding like the creaking sound of a finger on a wall. My pockets, empty' no jingling silver and gold, Except a few poems, waiting to fly to the vast universe. I am poor, in this evil world, No food, no drinks'no shelter and money, But have an ocean full of words, Ready to light up the old Milky Way. I, a beggar, to bloom into fame, And die as a great poet, Inscribing my name in people's hearts.
