有一位诗人,生前他并没有获得“诗人”这个特殊的称号,更不用说夺取诗人头上的“桂冠”了!一直都过着流离颠沛的生活,穷困潦倒。他越是穷,就越是发疯般地写诗。后来,诗稿越集越多,连自己也不清楚到底写了多少首诗,满满一屋子的诗卷震撼着诗人的灵魂。有关心他的人,劝他多投点稿,挣点稿费,改善一下自己的生活,他却总是摇摇头,一副很颓废的样子。 A poet, during his lifetime, he did not get the special title of “poet,” let alone win the “crown” of the poet’s head! Has been living a displaced life, destitute. The poorer he is, the poorer he writes poetry. Later, more and more poems and more, even their own do not know exactly how many poems written in the end, full of poetry volumes shook the poet’s soul. There are people who care about him, advised him to vote more, earn some royalties to improve their own lives, he always shook his head, a very decadent look.