My heart is a pancake,
Shared by the poor and homeless
And there is a poetic spot,
That belongs to the orphans
Who are covered with my blood,
Seeking for a home,
All these ages I wonder,
Who are those Orphans?
Then I found the answer,
Hanging on the sky page;
Those who sleep in the trash cans,
Sweat and cry and spit,
Those who make small clay houses,
Doesn’t let them get into
These ghosts that you see,
Close to the traffic signs,
Shaking more than breathing!
My heart is a pancake,
Shared by the poor and homeless,
And the eternal question is
Who would feed the orphans?
The naked bodies crawl on the sharp docks,
The small hands that are forced to break the rocks,
The time howls without mercy,
The children watching our world
From their neglected corner,
Their skin tells you how sun is every day,
Their violent shiver tells you how the cold is every night.
My heart is a pancake,
Shared by the poor and homeless,
The bones pray for the tortured body,
The tear improvise a poem,
For the watchful eye,
My heart is a pancake,
Shared by the poor and homeless,
Under the ground they are many,
Try to steal our attention,
Cry secretly and laugh as a compliment,
Hiding under the bridges,
Wrapping with newspaper,
Which never ever talking about them!
In front of the pizza shops
They are many
Watching in silence
And never taste.
Next, to the parks, they are many.
Lookout there fellows in humanity!
And in whisper,
Get out of their chest,
Alongside toy stores,
They are many,
Spying bitterly
Running strongly to the trash cans,
For holding their cotton toys.
My heart is a pancake,
Shared by the poor and homeless
And I wonder if one good heart
Stopped beating,
Who would feed the orphans?!
