I'm being followed by an apple
I feel like I've been picked
I wonder if it rolls on by
I'll have a bushel wit
I try to say it isn't me
who sees it as it falls
For me; I'm certain love is me
and gravity can't call
So on I go remembering when
I saw it light the way
And say this apple isn't me
and kick it where it lay
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem