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 foods,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,
Iscribing my name in people's hearts.