I'm dreaming all day long,
There comes the shaking-garbages,
Coldness pushes an old in shade,
The walking pole
With face like an aged goat,
Wore blue overcoat in patches like oily sky.
A dime comes in sight,
Folded into a soft tiny
That pressed on over and again by the passerbys.
There he stops,
To cover the sin at once;
Hardly rolling it toward his sides,
He takes off cotton gloves,
Holding the piece within dry hand's fading pigment,
Carefully to let it go to the top pocket.
Not often can he hear the laughing dings
Of little ones on roadside picking packed apples
Who are wishful to make gifts to their teachers or friends.
