I am but an impoverished poet,
no gold adorns my hands,
no palace bears my name.
My wealth consists solely of letters,
words and sentences-
straws of meaning
in the storm of existence.

I do not build houses,
I build thoughts.
No walls,
but lines
in which my heart takes shelter.

I am but an impoverished poet,
Yet in the silence of paper
I find abundance.
My richness expressed in simplicity,
in a language that need not shine
to be true.