From the same whiter cloth of yellow flame,
my name has worn me out.
When time it's hand then stops and tells, my name.
From anywhere but there, can come a name.
Names don't come calling and asking parents, why?
Fathers and mothers then call to each one child.
Stacy as a piece of work and art before he grew
and I want to give to them as well, before I got.
Why does 'Bobbie' and her husband or anybody else care
whether I name my daughter, 'Caroline' or
a man name, like 'Charles' for my son, to go by?
Himself, I am and always was will, always be...
that name is know to all whom read....
some names...you always know......
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem