In this life, I never dared to touch poetic lines, yet forced by Pi’s price, I am driven to compose.

Six years of infatuation fell with the price, all my helplessness poured into these verses.
I do not seek perfect rhythm or structure, only to express the bitterness and lingering resentment.
If not for such misery on the path of coins, why would a commoner write of sorrow?

I was once an ordinary man with little taste for ink, but six years of Pi’s crash have driven me mad.
So many hardships I wish to speak yet swallow, so many wounds too heavy for words.
These lines are rough, lacking in rhyme or flavor, my mood heavy, burdened by life’s vicissitudes.
If my dream of fortune could come true, who would wish to stand in the wind and lament the long night?