| She was born in December
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| A day that was cold
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| That’s all they would recall
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| Little girl lost her mother
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| Stare in the mirror
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| And searches for a woman she’ll never know
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| Inside the child staring back
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| Left to fill the spaces of holes
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| Feeble answers to questions she’ll never know
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| So she makes up a story
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| About the woman in the photograph that she stole
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| And imagines a life
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| Where they share more than just their smiles
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| And blonde hair
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| Some trees are planted
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| Others have to grow on their own
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| She thinks about it less now
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| She’s older
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| «It's just easier to left yourself forget»
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| Memories are bestowed on the fortunate
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| The forsaken have to learn to just throw them away
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| Now her son ventures out
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| Unsure of what he’ll find
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| Or what he’s even looking for
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| He can’t find his way despite his maps
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| He throws them down
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| (He understands)
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| Lost, the son bows his pathetic head
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| And falls to his unscarred knees
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| To thank God
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| For giving such a little girl such strength
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| He lifts himself back up
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| A little lighter now
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| To see flowers blooming underneath him
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| In the safety of these trees
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| We’re staring over now
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| We live our lucky, privileged lives
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| Held together
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| Forever by that girl who knew
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| There must be something better
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| We grow together now
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| We’re staring over now |