The peeling paintwork partly seems to mask
The lordly hauteur of what now are flats,
Crudely converted from grand mansions, which
Once homed more-well-off folk, the semi-rich
Who lived in ersatz elegance in Stamford Hill
Where now more varied voices vie to fill
The air with accents of far-distant tongues.
Though then pea-souper smogs stung eyes and lungs,
These tumbling terraces perhaps reflect
The days when children showed their due respect
To others, as I sadly stare at flowers
In memory of a gang-stabbed youth and pause
To think how these mean streets, where blood was spilt,
Have changed some hundred years since they were built.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem