Hovering in the clutter of poverty,
No smiles on ther faces,
Looking skyward, having a
Confrontation with God...
Their eyes the voices of their souls...
Their houses shout too,
We are enslaved!
The windows are dark and lifeless;
Who will hear them when they cry?
Not the landlord, over the
Jingle of his pocket money!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem