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