The Prize Winner

Under a street lamp post a beggar reads an old paper in the dim light. And he showed me a page while I was passing him. It's an obituary notice with a photograph. 'Papa! Who is this? ' I asked. Then he said; ' It's me child can't you see that gray beard? And I won the prize, please take me to that drawing place if possible And I promise you to give the half my son.' All of a sudden a poem blooms in my unrest mind And I scribbled on his paper. * Let the tree grows in the hard soil Until its last blossom And pour much water Then it gives you more fragrance.