He was a kid, a kid from Paris
His only family was his mother
A poor girl with big eyes withered
By grief and misery re
She loved flowers, especially roses
And the dear toddler, on Sundays
Bring her white roses
Instead of buying toys
The cà ¢lined very tenderly
He said as he gave them to her:
“Today is Sunday
Here, my pretty mother
Here are white roses
You who love them so much
Go when I grow up
I'll buy from the merchant
All his white roses
For you, pretty mother»
In the last spring the brutal destiny
Come and hit the blonde worker
She fell ill and had to go to the hospital
The kid saw his mother leave
One April morning among the walkers
br/>No longer having a penny in his pocket
In a market the poor kid
Furtively stole a few flowers
The florist having surprised him
By lowering his head he said to him:
“Today is Sunday
And I was going to see mom
I took these white roses
She loves them so much
On her little white bed
There she is waiting for me
I took these white roses
For my pretty mother”
The moved merchant gently said to her:
“Take them, I’ll give them to you”
She kissed him and the child left
Beaming for forgiveness
Then he came to the hospital running
To offer flowers to his mother
But seeing a nurse
Told her you no longer have a mother
And the kid kneeling said in front of the little white bed:
“Today is Sunday
Here, my pretty mother
Here are white roses
You who loved them so much
And when you you will go
To the big garden over there
These beautiful white roses
You will take them with you»

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