I built my life with muddy bricks and a tin sheet for the roof,
My history teacher suggests the name; poverty
But it's weather-beaten knows everybody.
Am I heavy to carry on your soft wings?
If you prefer I could have join your pilgrimage
Leaving all my burdens aside
I was carrying since my childhood.
I see the outer world through my little window, nothing; but gloomy.
Only I hear the secret murmur of the souls.
Red ants on the window sill very busy and I heard a butterfly's crying.