It's the little ones from big cities,
The little ones with unwashed asses,
Contingents from civil wars
Who grow between the paving stones.
Without cakes , without toys, without clothes,
And sometimes without pants,
They wear old frock coats
Which fall on their heels.
They hang around, in philosophers,
Their little aching feet,
Tight in vague fabrics...
Russian socks from Paris!
They warm themselves in the dumps
Blackened by smoky quinquets,
With bandits and gouges
Who were wolves like them.
They are born at the bottom of dead ends,
And sleep in common beds
Where the daronnes make passes
With others and some...
But these starving cherubs,
Who live with these damned
Have long angelic gazes,
In their great astonished shrines.
And, when they die in these mires,
They go straight to paradise,
br/>Because these little ones are the angels
Of alleys and slums.
They are the little ones of the big cities
The little ones with unwashed asses,
Contingents from civil wars
Who grow between the paving stones.

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