Look, some of the nicest people
Met, lived their whole lives clandestine.
Have had an even greater struggle
Let it be said, the starting line
"Doesn't run always down the middle'.
Forked roads as Mr R. Frost observes
Is a matter of some, choice?
But, good old fashion nurture observes
It's sometimes only, 'Hobson's choice'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem