Farmers on their solemn duty,
Roadside garbage in its beauty;
The smiling sun is peeping down
Through the smoky clouds of a town.

Vultures on their clamorous wings,
Trembling fingers on broken strings;
Unwearied protests of all the virtue
All poetic matters yet not new.

Yet I’m startled in the shade
Of the beggar’s bowl, self made;
The trampled edges are so damp.
Even in light I look for a lamp.

The aimless smiles of stainless hearts
Are crucified by the wicked hears;
Like eggs in the nest, days are swallowed
By the serpent of time unhallowed.

Oh, poet-brothers, playing with words,
Are you indifferent to the ailing birds?