The streets are streamlets
A sound of little waters, on the roof, against the wall
And all we hear and feel and know and see
Is this cold winter day

And in this sad winter journey
There’s a sense of loneliness
And the ghost of a cliché
Hanging over my quill

And it’s staring at me
Trying to convince me
I’m not good enough
Not good enough

Greetings to all who dream!
To us, poor poets
More or less mad, more or less foolish