A comfortable bed, with the fine touch of feathers,
The warmth of heaven, where my body would meander,
I could dream of anything, anything at all Of beauty, of lust, of bliss, of all Of happiness I have always wanted to clasp But with these worn-out hands, povery is all I can grasp
I can dream of nature, that is wishing to pass through me Of the tying clouds, with each turn turning gloomy
My hands can wrap over all of the flowers Each of their petal, with my touch in delight But with my shattered eyes, all I can give them is fright
Only in my sleep, I become a dreamer While I am awake, I feel worse than the reaper
My scent disgusts even the winds That break upon me Like my shattered dreams
And though my dreams and my comforts are all in a nap The stale street and its cold is all I can have
A poem on poverty and a person's resentment over his conditions What the society thinks of him and what he thinks of himself