I'll wait for the grape
to turn into wine
unless my patience
dies on the vine begging
me to call on Jesus
who knows best.
I, unlike Him,
am a legal immigrant
with proper work permits.
There won't be any need
to hire Him,
an illegal immigrant,
to stump on purple raisins
though divine feet,
dirty or not, could help.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem