The Crying Child

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What ails you, child?
Why cry you wild?
The journey is yet to begin;
The world is crook and pain
And outright insane;
It hides in its ways,
Mysterious days,
Hurt, that has yet to find a name.
It will a play a game
That’s hard to win,
It’s writ in sin;
Maybe you’ll never win
And die again
To breed in vain,
Only to find there are no answers.
With questions in head
You will bleed in red,
Nothing will ever make any sense,
Its forests are dense,
With lives in fences,
You will think of freedom quite often hence.
Brace yourself for more
Dangers galore,
Here men are weak,
And women are meek;
They are crying without a voice,
You will only hear noise,
If you try to listen
To the sound people make,
When they are trying to keep
Their words at stake
To get things done;
They will not remember you
When you are forgotten.
Rivers are mere mirages of rain
Flowing without a direction,
Still reaching a better path in the end,
And finding its own connection.
But you were born alone,
You will die without
A soul clinging to your bone;
No one will shout
At your grave
But you will still behave
Because crying, my dear, crying,
Makes you look ugly.

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