24

The Trip at Midnight

Long I have been suspecting, 

That I am possessed by ghosts and spirits surrounding. 

For I am obsessed with talking poetry, 

And never can I stop scribbling. 

No idea of where I come from, 

Yet hundreds of sentences simply come to form. 

Shabbily-dressed I am with dirty appearance, 

Clean words of poetry are what I cherish as my life. 

Much I am into beautiful phrases, 

A single mistake would drive me into madness. 

From the spring I begin to write, 

Hardly can I stop even to the autumn night. 

Everything is out of my lovesickness, 

Either the pathos or the lofty sentiments, 

Going either into the heaven or down to the earth. 

Year after year I have been obsessed, 

All on the paper is like what I have dreamed. 

Gods are asked to pick off my heart, 

Which might rip the spirits apart.