someone does business on poetry
when they are bored
bend their brows and boast all round
poet today doesn't make wine
the important
is to sell out the entrance tickets of the life door
the bud holds a embryo
the god of poetry is shrouded by the hue of suffering calamities
a minute of rudeness trod down the crown of honor
those who ate enough the great dinners
were fooled by good fortune
whole gale blows, dreamland is in ups and downs
the hardened heart is brave to bet
that who made poems lost money in business
he started off with kindling
burnt out the ticket office of the life door
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