An Epitaph of An Obscure Poet

—The front— He was a homeless wanderer, he rolled over the grass field with embracing a moonbeam in his arms to have a good night’s sleep, and had swallowed a burning sun to quench his thirst. He wept fallen leaves trampled by thoughtless passers-by, for tired in wandering to find the forbidden fruit he kissed a nameless wild flower no one ever looked on. He was a lonely man, who had sadly smiled Pierrot’s smile, and when, unexpectedly found a naked woman in his arms, he set on the dusty roadside and tore his breast that was filled with many troubled thoughts; he pulled little writhing heart out and put it onto his ink stained blue palm, with staring and soliloquizing “it’s a son; it’s a son of my own.” He was a violet eyed fool, who only had been anxious to live in a blank space, instead to live in a glory, thought there are some beautiful reminiscence will visit him some day calmly like a bashful bride. But, Oh; who remembers today, that he had had a beautiful dream no one could deny. —The back— A man who closed eyes exclaiming, “tomorrow is a happiness, tomorrow is an agony,” and asked for more turbid air, and tried to see a dazzling sun once more, were rested peacefully under a piece of this stone.