Waifs and strays come forth
To gather round the fire
seeking warmth and empathy
To drag them from the mire
It's not the common look of hatred
Thats stamped upon their faces
Just the haunted look of vagrancy
But that has left its traces
Suffer little children
So they may come to me
He should look into the pitiful eyes
Of those who cannot see
They've lost the faith along the way
It's not something you contrive
It's not the future makes them carry on
Just the nature to survive
The lost the lonely, beaten, abused
Runaways and wrongly accused
Scattered all across the land
To many to count, like grains of sand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very truethful poem what drives them to such devastation only God knows. Cheers Sylvie