The Children Of The Streets

To blow on the thistles,
And scatter the spores to the dusty winds,
Where the thistle loses its identity.
Growing bare,
Where they are the pods of the Gods sent
Down from heaven,
To become the creatures of the true heart.
The only sin they have committed
Is being born alive.
With no one to care for them,
Where their only aim is to survive.
As they must hide unloved,

by Consuelo Suarez

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