A young child, a girl, dead,
Asks why I'm writing a poem
When I should be bringing her back.
Young children do not know
That anything's impossible. There will
Be ducks on the pond that she
Won't ever see. The honking geese
Won't startle or amuse her; won't
Make her clutch small hands together
And say Oh! No cricket will bring her
Good fortune; no grandchild
Ask her why cats don't have kings.
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