Les roses blanches

He was a kid, a little one from Paris, his only family was his mom
A poor girl with big, faded eyes, worn down by sorrow and hardship
She loved flowers, especially roses, and her dear little boy on Sundays
Would bring her beautiful white roses, instead of buying toys
Cuddling her so tenderly, he said as he handed them over

"It's Sunday today, here my pretty mom
Here are some white roses, that your heart loves so much
When I grow up, I'll buy from the vendor
All these white roses, for you, pretty mom"

Last spring, fate struck hard, hitting the blonde worker
She fell ill and for the hospital, the kid saw his mom leave
One April morning among the strollers
With not a dime in his pocket
At a market, the poor little guy, stealthily stole some flowers
The florist caught him, and lowering his head, he said to her

"It's Sunday today and I was going to see mom
I took these white roses, she loves them so much
On her little white bed, over there she waits for me
I took these white roses, for my pretty mom"

The moved vendor gently said to him, "Take them, I’ll give them to you"
She kissed him and the child left, all beaming that he was forgiven
Then he ran to the hospital, to give the flowers to his mom
But when he saw her, a nurse said to him, "You don’t have a mom anymore"
And the kid, kneeling down, said in front of the little white bed

"It's Sunday today, here my pretty mom
Here are some white roses, you who loved them so much
And when you go away, to the big garden over there
All these white roses, you’ll take with you"