Neither a single sheaf on which to write,
Nor a drop of ink in bottle left,
No candle wick by which to work at night,
Of these things, the poet may be bereft.
With only a torn mattress for a bed,
Vast treasures remain at his disposal,
Though the bare cupboard shelves hold no morsel,
He keeps safely tucked away in his head.
Undaunted, he composes on the air,
Not for fickle fortune or fleeting fame,
But his heart and soul to the world to bare
Before around comes Death to end the game.