It is, of course, your own pocket your very own that you sift through where grit of unknown origin mingles with a marble a baby tooth and several pennies But, I am not one of those pennies I tremble on the track from fear perhaps or just vibration's whim awaiting the train
that shapes my destiny though I will no longer vend I may bring you luck
if you believe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
suppossed to be broken up in lines. but this is how it keeps coming out.