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
