He is mixing at the bottom of his cup
some honey.
He is looking, through the fanlight,
at the sky.
Each time an airplane flies,
he thinks maybe it’s her
who passes above his house.
They’ve told him she was in the sky ( = heaven)
He is dreaming, lying on the floor
in his mother’s arms,
his mother drawn in chalk.
Every night, secretly
he makes this drawing,
perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)
He is dreaming, lying on the floor
in his mother’s arms,
his mother drawn in chalk.
Every night, secretly
he makes this drawing,
perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)
Lost at the back of the classroom
he gets confused,
He struggles with the tough
plural form,
Then he explains to his teacher
why "parent" doesn’t have an s"
He would like to be hugged so much
even only one hug per year would be great
He is dreaming, lying on the floor
in his mother’s arms,
his mother drawn in chalk.
Every night, secretly
he makes this drawing,
perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)
He is dreaming, lying on the floor
in his mother’s arms
his mother drawn in chalk.
Every night, secretly
he makes this drawing,
perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)
He is dreaming, lying on the floor
in his mother’s arms
his mother drawn in chalk.
Every night, secretly
he makes this drawing,
perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)
Perfectly similar to her
from a portrait (of her)