He was a kid, a gossip from Paris,
His only family was his mother.
A poor girl with big eyes withered
Through grief and misery.
She loved flowers, roses especially,
And the dear toddler on Sunday
Brought him white roses
Instead of buying toys.
Hugging her tenderly,
He said, giving them to him:
Refrain:
Today is Sunday
Here, my pretty mama,
Here are white roses,
That your heart loves so much
Go, when I grow up
Ill buy you from the merchant
All her white roses
For you, pretty mom....
In the last spring the brutal fate
Came to hit the worker blonde,
She fell ill, and for the hospital
The kid saw his mother leave.
One morning in April, among the pilgrims
With no money left in his pocket
On a market, shaking the palm etc...
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