That comfort once given,
To those fleeing to live in suburbia...
Has become more disturbing,
To those who had taken flight...
From a created blight they left,
To declare 'them' and those...
As 'ghetto-ites'.
The price of escape has been at your expense.
Your foreclosed dreams...
Has been a costly and emotional experience.
And pointing your fingers,
Will not make a difference.
Since the walls you bang your head against,
Represents the building of your decisions made.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem