I loiter in poetic region
To find my poetry museum;
I find all poems’ pigeons’
Spray feathers’ collection.

Some are moving with air,
Look as in living flair;
some are pale and dried
Look as if they are dead.

Where are you my poems?
Bound in measured words?
Tuned, numbered rhythms?
Songs of singing birds?

Will none, some trace this?
Halt this wasting treasure?
Before I get my final bliss
Will you bring me pleasure?
I am old and marching fast,
Will you hold the treasure?