When I have much I am glad, but if I have no wine
I justly contend myself with water or cheap beer,
and wish I could find some hotel to pass the time
celebrating yuletide and enjoying a good cheer.
Year end is about the most bonus I get from work,
contending with reprimands inside the door,
It will be Christmas cheer for bosses and staff,
Wishing prosperity but not aware that I am poor.
Waving handbook in every fluctuating event
running meaningless figures to compensate profit,
I will be just as content with a dollar or a cent,
if I go empty, than to be treated as a fool sold out.
With all losses quickly sent away where life went,
hearing my name mention in what ridicule meant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem