Outside my window, people were laughing,
the crossing cars and racing bikes.
I see a poor heart,
however rich than silks and velvet's,
richest than billionaires and serene.
Like the silkworm making silk thread inside,
or a nest about to fall in the rain.
The poor heart; shadow of nature,
a shadow of creator,
it was inner You and Me,
neither gloves in hand, nor masked man,
simply a poor heart,
beating inside, feeling safe in cage of ribs,
it was lone in between millions,
and stands by itself,
when millions were sleeping.