Slowly they are being strangled.
But the rhythm maintained and the floral scents,
Keeps them unaware...
Of their own involvement that squeezes them,
From their dollars and common sense.
Slowly the hold imposes an enclosure.
And caring less.
As long as they are able to dress to impress,
And mingle!
With a 'buzz' to tingle every deluded sensation.
Slowly they are being strangled!
And some are loving it so much,
They have become way out of touch...
As to accuse others who have been warning them of this,
If they don't like the music...
To get off the dance floor and go back to Africa!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem