Where do the beggar children come from,
what forces multiply their rags?
Whose heart has never felt those fingers
by birds with copper beaks?
Who hasn’t stopped to see their bones
and hear their voices
pleading like humiliated bells?
Let there be no beggar children dwarfed in doorways,
chilled by cemetery mist,
pale wall of the city.
Let there be children with toys,
and stars beneath their shoes.
Let them play in the school yard
and catch insects in the grass.
Let them live in their own worlds
among the beings and the things they love.
About this poem
This poem, representing Honduras, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.