A child, whose blue eyes burned with the fire of life,
clung to her mother's breast; she knew not fear.
What reason had she to know evil or malice?
Only the cries of her own hunger prevailed, and were quenched.
She grew in love that protected her like a soft, smothering blanket.
No longer a fragile porcelain music box, she was released
and the pure white was stained dark by the sun;
her eyes were altered from deep blue innocence to hazel knowledge.
Past violet nights and scarlet days, those sparkling silver years,
her delicate features are lost to the tragic truth of the world;
that despite all attempts to remain wrapped in that blanket,
the shards of broken porcelain have shredded it beyond any hope of repair.
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