| She licks her finger and dampens her eye
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| To make people think she is crying
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| For all around her are tear-sorrowed faces
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| But she is too young to know dying
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| Outside the window tree branches sway down
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| Long, glassy fingers sweep snow-covered ground
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| While inside a woman is moaning softly
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| For loss of a son
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| She sees black-ribboned white roses and hears
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| A man with bowed head heavily sighing
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| Then bravely she turns her gaze back to the box
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| Where a broken young body is lying
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| Outside the crystal icicles shine bright
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| Casting a prism, reflecting the light
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| That sends rainbows dancing across the brow
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| Of a pastor in prayer
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| She touches her face to see if the mouth tears
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| She put on with her finger are drying
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| Then her young attention is drawn back outside
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| Where she watches a small brown bird flying
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| Coming to land on the icy fence rail
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| With such a momentum it skids on its tail
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| And she laughs so loud and then quickly
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| Claps her small hand to her mouth |