Just a little boy, just a little thought
Pressure creeping on my sour throat.
I don't have clothes to wear,
But nothing intensional I swear.
Slums are my home,
My destiny is just to Rome.
Winter, autumn, summer and spring,
I am not allowed to have wings.
These shiny cars and I have a thing in common,
Both are made to serve our owners.
With a little fright and a little height,
I state that situation is pretty tight.
Just a little boy, just a little thought,
Pressure creeping on my sour throat
.
Desires to be fulfilled but not mine,
These are the reasons Which generate crime.
Dreams are big, head is high,
The thing which I see is just sky.
Being poor is a big sin,
Bruises deep every where on my skin.
Almighty reduce the gap between the rich and poor,
Hail o hail make everyone your dear.
Just a little boy, just a little thought,
Pressure creeping on my sour throat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
your poem helps me to think about the many realities, seldom looked by medias or politicians, of the world.thank you.bye bye.jk