The poet was poor in everything.

Rich in poetic soul but his hands were empty.

He had no house to sell. 

Just roaming in the galaxy of words and verses. 

And instead of a million of beautiful roses, 

he wrote for her millions of  dream poems. 

But poetry had forever been the color of  white. 

So his love story was also like the whiteness of clouds.

Because beauty is just an illussion

that will fade away with years of indifference. 

She now live a rich life in a mansion

And had forgotten the lover of bygone times...

Pitifully, he never woke up from his dream.

Months and years passed by, but he still waited for her.

And then one day, no one saw him again. 

Only the wind by the roadside  kept blowing on ragged pages of poetry.

Translated by Vương Thanh, 2023