| A mother bids a weeping farewell
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| to the, in her eyes, eternal little boy.
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| Straightens his long wornout cap
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| and strokes by the cold red cheek,
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| never ever stray your way
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| in this very big strange world.
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| You ruffle and tousle back the cap
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| the way it was supposed to those days.
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| Where are you, where have you been?
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| Who are you, what have you done?
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| She used to always quote her mother
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| that «life begins at twenty-one!»
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| But I’m more than sure you’d disagree.
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| This wasn’t far before it ended.
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| Accelerating through the crowd,
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| waving and forming words with her mouth.
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| Other than souls of sobbing war widows,
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| she stays until there’s none left there.
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| Derailing, because we’re nothing more
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| than what we are,
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| lost souls in search for a guiding light
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| in times of loss, in times of need.
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| Why are we left
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| with these questions that remain untold?
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| You’ll never prove us wrong.
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| Only the end of the line could do such a thing,
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| but you can’t prove a dead man wrong.
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| Never would he in his life
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| return back to the town
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| where his childhood dreams |
| lie shattered on the playground,
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| where the swing is now only swung
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| by grey winds of memory.
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| No one still this very day
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| knows where or why
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| his path would him claim.
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| Maybe he’s still out there,
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| dreaming over the red horizon
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| to one day find his way back home. |