Where do you work?

Walking along, the wind whispers in my ears.
The trees warm the songbirds in its womb.
Its a cold chilly winter night,
an old copy of Pushkin's poetry in my hand.
By the moonlight, I try to decipher Pushkin,
some old friend had asked me yesterday
"Where do you work?"
I had simply stared, turned away,
clutching Pushkin tightly.
I work, Neitzsche lights my fireplace.
Being jobless and studying,
a strange and difficult art.
My hunger douses my fireplace.
My thirst slows my pen.
I work at the godown,
I am a carpenter of ideas,
old and new-give me any thought-
I'll fashion it to your time.
I am an amateur thought artist,
infantile brushstrokes cover my notebooks.