CENTOPELLE
Strong colours, a bit of a scoundrel
dirt is his only clothing
his hair unruly at every turn
genuine son of nature
he doesn't worry about his appearance
with his feet almost always bare
in the rain soaked in rivulets
explores the mud of the public street
centopelle, street boy
/>centopelle, street boy
Equine teeth
slightly silly smile
does not know possessive pronouns
handles stones with precision
unique toys to play with
/>nothing begs, he takes heart
picking up Tuscans from the ground
just spit butts
from gentlemen in top hats and tails
centopelle, street boy
centopelle, boy from road
More than a hundred years have passed
a hundred people no longer live here
in some other village in the world
he laughs while whistling
among the huts of Congo Town< br/>between the favelas of Cantagallo
up to the districts of Bucharest
between anger and hunger
the desire to live
centopelle, street boy
centopelle, boy of road