He is a soul who doesn't know the world,
    Yet sees with his own two eyes its rules,
While his body is by his sadness curled,
    Counting his tears, who look like dewy jewels.
The crazy wind goes through his glossy hair,
    And its sword does almost strike his pale throat,
He's in a twisted state beyond compare,
    In his shaking hands the fine poems he wrote.
Viewing the Mystic's path, sometimes the frame
    Of life appears, yet all it secrets are
Still far away from him, he knows each name
    Of saint and poet, but still is far, too far.
Will the meaning of his life come true?
That brooding poet, he sometimes has a clue.