Chico De La Calle
Walter Olmos
Street Kid
On the corner of a traffic light, his tender eyes looked at me, and a memory sprouted, those of walking, with bare feet.
Despite the mornings, the ones of cold and dismay, of not having shoes, and nothing but a dream.
I know he wants to play, he wants to study, but he can't. All he has left is to dream, and not stop fighting, despite what he wants.
Street kid, what you're suffering, I've also experienced. I couldn't play, I couldn't study, my school was the street.
In the ritual of his hands, so small, that in a bucket, he squeezes every now and then, on occasion, a worn cloth.
Just for pennies, on the glass of some car, that returns it without a 'thank you', how disheartening, the attention.
I know he wants to play, he wants to study, but he can't. All he has left is to dream, and not stop fighting, despite what he wants.
Street kid, what you're suffering, I've also experienced. I couldn't play, I couldn't study, my school was the street.
