My Walk to Work.
Outside the paint flaked door,
Discarded cans, and broken bottles lie.
A small face peers from a window,
Is that a tear?
That I can spy.
I can only guess the suffering,
The shouts, the fists, the fights.
The tea’s of toast and noodles,
The long cold lonely nights.
She gets told to be quiet,
To be silent as a mouse.
To keep those awful secrets,
And to keep them,
in this house.
This little face stays with me,
As I walk to do what’s right.
To be they’re in her corner,
The next time the bell rings,
For the fight.
End.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A heartfelt poem Tony. I'm sad to say that standards in some parts of the country fall way short of where they should be. You made your point well.