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Child of Hiroshima
See me in a dark cloud in the sky,
or in a river slowly flowing by,
a cherry blossom, pretty to the eye,
the child of Hiroshima.
In a bygone bouquet, given, nigh,
a question, "did she have to die?"
Hear only silence, my reply,
the child of Hiroshima.
In a borderless land with many others,
millions of sisters, millions of brothers,
when will we be found by our mothers?
Children of Hiroshima.
I am a never-ending sigh,
a lingering question, "why?",
you will never hear me cry,
the child of Hiroshima.
Copyright ©
David Crandall
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