THERE IS A CONCEALED PLACE WHERE I HEAR ME GOD.
IT SURE IS LYING SOMEWHERE ON THE GARDENS’ CHUFF
JUST METERS YONDA OF A ZEBRA LINED ROAD
WHERE, ALONE, I WALK IN NO HASTED HUFF.
THEY SEE ME STRUT THOUGH I CAN’T AFFORD,
EVEN THOUGH I’M SURVIVING, I PROVE REAL TOUGH
CUZ I WALK ALONE, ON THE PAVEMENT NIGHTLY – COLD.
IN THE NIGHT, I SHALL FEAR NOT ROUGH.
BUT POVERTY IS DEVILING AND SPURS NO ROD
AND BATTERS ME WITH A TRASH SO ROUGH
THAT I TOLD MY GOD, ‘I’LL HIT THE ROAD
AND QUIT THE SHAME THAT’S MADE ME HUFF.’
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem