Forgotten children wander the streets
Aimlessly and randomly
They are cold, they are hungry, they are almost naked
And their eyes are filled with fog
Like a flock of poor sparrows
They dream of the banks of streams
Curled up in the winter wind
In their moth-eaten wool sweater
The forgotten children have only parents
Only the noises of the grand boulevards
In the palm of their hands
They hold out to passers-by
Objects of ©robbed from the bazaars
They love each other with a naive love
The fragility of velvet words
They have a whole universe for their palate
In the drafts of the vast cities
Forgotten children hang out in the streets
Just like little old people
They are cold, they are hungry, they are almost naked
But they are the children of the good Lord

INVIA LE CORREZIONI