You can or cannot obtain yours.
While the cream of the crop,
stays there, deep down inside.
On the shallow side of your curve.
Hurried off against each morning,
I'm awakened by each swift tug.
Up and down then it's gone.
Carried away by each dream that
you save.
The bag that you dreamed to own.
Left wrinkled,
Written alone.
Brought home in the back of a cab.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
hurried up against each morning, good write, thanks.