Russian version: http://www.proza.ru/2011/11/30/1646
A carpet made of golden patches
Is slipping smoothly to the river
And its luxuriant splendour matches
With vagabonds' hole-ridden slippers.
The nature's charm in wealth of colour
In sharpness pleasing to the eye
Of all proportions go out
The capability of mind...
But some just try to put these into
The pipes, all these... How poor's their mind:
Has billions in paper pieces
And so blind.