Somewhere in China,
There's a poet just like me.
Struggling with who he is,
Longing to be free.
Does he write his poems down
With a pencil or a pen,
Or does he dip a quill in ink,
Like countless other men?
Does his poetry speak to others,
Or is that secret his?
Do others know his passion,
Or must he keep it hid?
Do they speak of freedom,
In the town where he lives?
Can he dream of having
A life that is only his?