Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.


His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.


Flood of a baby's first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.


Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others'.


Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn't came with the flood,
Just from a former poet's ashes.