By the gaslight, she is standing,
On the corner. Dressed in rags.
No~one even sees her,
As they jostle her with bags.
Her face all streaked and dirty,
Her feet, chilled to the bone.
No~one even looks at her,
Standing there, on her own.
The poor little street urchin,
Out in the cold, alone.
No~one seems to bother,
That she hasn't got a home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem