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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2139599
by Crow
Rated: E · Prose · Gothic · #2139599
When we bury our children
There is a favorite place I go,

Where stories long forgotten

Are there for me to know.

And there in sunken silence lay,

Stones of children who lived for but a day.

A carving of angles over each stone,

Believed to escort to their heavenly home.

And they departed, the stones remain,

Etched with love as a soft refrain.
© Copyright 2017 Crow (stuka at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2139599