There once was a little girl,

Short but sweet,

Who sold gold roses,

Not bloomed yet but pretty.

She was selling them one warm morning,

When the sky was clear and blue,

The birds were singing a jingle,

And the girl was feeling quite witty.

She offered a rose to a gentleman for his lady,

But he denied her offer.

She offered a rose to a boy for his sister,

But he denied her offer.

She offered a rose to a mother of five for her children,

But she denied her offer.

Soon the day was done,

And she sold no flowers.

The night became cold,

But she had nowhere to go to.

So she sat in a pig pen,

Clutching one golden rose that was about to bloom.

She cried herself to sleep,

And dreamed of a warm house.

A woman had heard her soft weeping,

And came out with a shawl draped around her shoulders.

She found the girl in her pig pen,

Fast asleep.

She felt pity for the poor soul,

And carried her inside.

Little did she know,

That the girl had died.

Lost,

And unknown.

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I know this might be extremely sad, but the sad truth is, little girls like this one in my poem, are dying in some countries, and it might just be because no one paid attention to them. The lesson I hope to bring across is, donate money to people who live in those countries. Maybe buy something that they offer you. Maybe even adopt them if they have no family. 

Have a big, welcome heart.