He prayed to Christ;
he prayed to Krishna;
he even wished upon a star.
He said a novena;
he chanted esoteric mantras;
he bought a rabbit’s foot.
He journeyed to Mecca;
he knelt at the Wailing Wall;
he crossed his fingers and hoped to die.
He studied Kabbala;
he pored over astrological tables;
he paid the palm reader generously.
After years of supplications;
litanies, liturgies, and libations;
after sacrifices and renunciation
of his sins and shortcomings,
he at last became a wealthy man
at 98 years old and died
with his fingers still crossed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem