rosy cheeks kids
with tattered clothes
reach with their empty bowl
so innocent, so hungry to talk
as flies feast on their lips
standing barefoot
on puddle of rainwater
where are their mom
where are their dads
where are the social services
maybe not on this nook of planet
those are my kids whom i'm trying
to write poems for; to feed
they are the homids
***
homids= home, i don't stay
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem