<>The way he smokes</P>
<>He says He is a poet,<BR>Whether it's true or not,<BR>None cares.</P>
<>Now<BR>Thin and little his figure. <BR>Hungry and frail his feeling.</P>
<>He fires the last cigarette finally,<BR>squeezing the empty package<BR>to a mass of paper in the left hand.</P>
<>Sucking with great comfort,<BR>Clamping the golden section part<BR>with tips of thumb and forefinger,<BR>The lit gun is getting shorter.</P>
<>He is such an old,<BR>his dim eyes look.<BR>auper,<BR>I hear the shopkeer murmurs<BR>behind the counter.</P><BR>