Dumplings, little packets of satisfaction and joy,

bathed in a bowl with the salty sauce of soy.

Clouds that contain chicken and cilantro of jade —

when eating you, my happiness will never fade.

Dumplings, laughing as you boil in a pot,

the amount of sweetness that you hold is a lot.

As you cook, your smell steams a savory scent;

to my tongue, your taste is lent.

Dumplings, you look like white, fluffy snowballs.

You are a common favorite food in malls.

Your skin is a blanket warming your delicious inside,

riding down into my stomach on a slide.