We can only be memories to our children
like the remnants of a pleasant dream
We hope that they forever be sheltered
and find the comfort of pastures green

To us they are but swaddling infants
For a smile, we'd sell our pride
Their tears could ignite a fire
For their pain, we’d burn inside

Is it a crime I sometimes wonder?
into this world to bring a child
to them we bequeath a future uncertain
While in death we gratefully hide

The End

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