This book is my diary
So from day to day,
I add a few happenings
As I go on my way.
Into these pages
With every line,
My life is woven
By the machine of time.
The things that I write about
Are not very much,
Just things about the children
Flowers, fairies and such.
Sketches from life
Memories of the past,
Prophecies of the future
Reverences that last.
Sometimes when I'm happy
I inser something glad,
But more often I'm tearful
Then my rhymes ring sad.
I did not want to write this book
I have no education,
But something seems to tell me to
And loud was my lamentation.
The promptings of my heart would come
All in a tangled tumble,
I knew not how to write them down
Nor took the time or trouble.
But in time some sixth sense, taught me how
I've tried to do it's bidding,
By telling what life has reveiled
Nothing willingly ommitting.
So read, read on and on
Read this little book through,
Then dropp a line and tell me
What best suited you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem