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Garden of Children
The children had fallen.
They fell from numerous things.
Maybe from illness,
Or maybe from stillbirth.
Perhaps from the ungodly murder,
Or the dreadful self-inflicted death.
Whatever it was, these children fell.
The children rest in the garden.
The garden with slow carnivals,
The one with toys and games.
With dancing and fun,
Never to end.
With nobody to tell them what to do,
Or to ever be hurt.
The children frolic and play in the garden.
The garden of children,
Where their souls are never to be foud again.
The price of admission?
A life.

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