O lonely child out alone on the misery street, did your mother know if you have sumthing today to eat? Did she ever know what time you crawl in late at night, when the grip of the glue hold your mind and breath strictly tight? Do you think she can understand with the broken voice you sing, broken words from a broken heart that only a street child can bring? Does she ever remember that you are from the blood of her own, and that you as her child also have the right to have a happy warm home? Does it ever cross her mind and let her to wept, that you suck on her breast and slept in her bed? Does she ever get the feeling to just for ones hold you tight? Or are there so many other interesting things, kept her bussy from home at night? O child from the street! I realy want to know. Because I have no living child that I can call my own. The only one that was lent to me for a while, past away some time ago, leaving only a name on a file. Since then a stream of tears flowing from my eyes, and because I know how precious you are, I ask these questions, with a tear and a cry. I realize the answers you will not know. But some where is a mother whose conscience with sadness will grow. And turn around her whole life with a speed. When they tell her, her precious little boy is dead.