Where have I come to, O mother, where tears dry up on soft little cheeks
With no caring fingers to rub them off,
Where little girls cry for their mothers’ warm laps,
But sleep on frosted silent pavements, afraid of the shadows.
Where have I come to, O mother, where a small soft hand breaks bricks
Hands that should have held dolls and candies, hands that should have played.
Where other eyes see the pain, yet turn away, lost in their own pains,
Eyes that hide behind mirrors, eyes that weep no more.
Where have I come to, O mother, where tiny desperate eyes look at you in trepidation,
Eyes where laughter ruled once, where silence plays now.
Where little hearts beat in their own numbness and exhaustion,
Hearts forgotten by a mother’s cosy arms.
Where have I come to, O mother, where the little hands as they grow a little
Are thrown on to the streets, to be watched by lecherous waiting eyes.
Where those tiny desperate eyes slowly turn towards hatred, tired hearts turn bitter,
Where life dies every day, like a casual sundry happening.
Where have I come to, O mother, where have you sold me for a petty piece of bread?