I was born in Green Valley, west of Liverpool, west of Sydney, Australia.
It's like being born in the Bronx, or Tottenham, or Shankhill, or Govan in Glasgow.
I might as well have been born there too.
Where those of Green Valley's DNA
Kiss the ground with a bent neck, and are proud to do so
When they look up, their face smears on the glass ceiling
But they can't feel it.
The only escape is a poor paying job
So they keep saying.
There is no door with a happy label on it,
Or a sign that says 'this way to an improved life'.
So here I am in Scotland.
I went through the unnamed door
I think it was called 'risk'.
It broke the glass ceiling.
Very poignant and thought-provoking write Peter. We all yearn to escape from whatever holds us captive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Intense and vibrantly enticing thought. Love this poem. Thank you for sharing. RoseAnn