mothers of our nations produce babies,
to send them as immigrant workers:
work at the plantation to yield,
toil at the construction field,
sweat at the rig with oily hands,
sweep the roads with gloved hands,
hit the key board to program,
touch the patients to diagnose,
build the machines to fly and float,
and a few be the customers,
to the whores for comfort and to rot.
this is a sad and very true picture.... you speak the truth well!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sad but true, VS....powerful lines, very strong emotions...