Ana

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When Mothers are lucky, their boys become men.
But some don’t quite make it, no why, how or when.
With fortunate fathers, of daughters with dreams,
They’ll think of the wonders, not horrors or screams.

It happens in cities, in London, New York.
Not our little suburbs, of Dublin and Cork.
Never our doorstep, this terror unseen.
It’s not what we’re used to, this ungodly scene.

The whispers that follow the police sirens blare.
Her family, forever, stuck with this nightmare.
A beauty no longer, if just in our thoughts,
A life barely lived, a battle long fought.

They’re out there, among us, these monsters, our hell,
But what do they look like, there’s no way to tell,
Just brothers of sisters, sons of good folk,
No way of knowing, their fire, our smoke.

A baby, a beauty, a daughter, in school,
An object, a victim, reminder life’s cruel.
Some parents aren’t lucky, they don’t have a choice,
It’s so hard to whisper, to call with no voice,

A blessing, a wonder, a miracle child,
A nation awakens, forgets for a while,
She’ll not be returning, not now, or again,
To a world filled with beauty, and the evils of men.

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