He was a kid, a kid from Paris,
His only family was his mother.
A poor girl with big wilted eyes
By sorrows and misery.
She loved flowers, roses especially,
And the dear child, on Sunday
Brought her white roses
Instead of buying toys.
Cuddling her tenderly,
he said as he gave them to her:

Chorus:
It's Sunday today
Here, my pretty mom,
Here are white roses,
That your heart loves so much
Go, when I grow up
I'll buy from the merchant
All his white roses
For you, pretty mom....

In the last spring the brutal fate
Came to strike the blonde worker,
She fell ill, and for the hospital
The kid saw his mother leave.
One April morning, among the walkers
Having no more money in his pocket
On a market, the poor trembling kid
Stealthily stole some flowers
The florist having surprised him,
Lowering his head he said to her:

Chorus:
It's Sunday today
And I was going to see mom
I took these white roses she loves them so much
On her little white bed over there she's waiting for me,
I took these white roses
For my pretty mom.

The moved merchant gently said to him:
"Take them, I give them to you"
She kissed him, and the child left,
All radiant that he is forgiven.
Then at the hospital, he came running
To offer the flowers to his mother.
But seeing him, a nurse said to him:
"you no longer have a mom"
And the kid kneeling
In front of the little white bed:

Chorus:
It's Sunday today,
Here, my pretty mom,
Here are white roses
You who loved them so much!
And when you go away
To the big garden over there
These beautiful white roses you will take with you!

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