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As children, we rarely pined for reasons;
We merely lived life, one day at a time.
Not hindered by predicament or slime,
Immortal brood, we’d hop and skip and run -
With no aspirations, except having fun.
So innocent, naïveté our crime,
Not caring about melody or rhyme,
We sang our nonsense songs under the sun.
But, childhood, like all things, passes away;
By daggers of reality it’s slain.
We scrabble late, seeking explanations,
Astonished that we can no longer play.
Joy has an end – Eternity’s a game
With no reasons for Divine machinations.
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