Little children in the corner of the dark street
were talking about it.
Little souls, quivering in bitter cold,
seek definitions to
hunger, misery and despair.

Just from the window above,
a mother murmurs oddly as if
she is putting her child to sleep.
She doesn't sing lullabies to children
don't tell false stories about the princess
because she knows it's a lie.
A damned lie.

Bedtime stories of the rainbows
are gone - stale and obsolete.
But the children need some food,
and some sleep
and where there's nothing to nibble on,
Songs are what they eat.
And the mother has to lie,
another damn lie.

Winter is building up outside
and mothers do nothing but sing another lie.
One of the little boys below
had something in his mind, and put a smile.
He listened to the lady above
with the hope of bright days to come.

A hope that's fuelled by imagination
and worlds that never exist,
A hope that's nurtured in million other hearts,
a hope that's obstinate to the freezing cold,
a hope that lives across.