A tall man is walking
Across the bridge at the river.
If I look very hard
I can see his hands quiver.

He is a poet
And popular, too,
For the men of the village
Claim it to be true.

But today he is moving
With a crooked pace,
His limbs slightly distant
Searching his trace.

Approaching the poet
I hurry to find
The skinny figure
With a beautiful mind.

As my lips part to speak,
His finger flies to my mouth,
Sealing the gap
So no sound would come out.

And his rickety hands
Shape figures above
Of great clearness and passion
For me to set off.

And I see for the first time
How fed up he is
With the weight of those words
- How genuine is this?