The Baby

The baby.

All blue
and cold
and dead.

Its little fingers
curled and clenched
around themselves.

Two eyes,
which had not seen enough of this world
to understand itself,
to call a life.

What did it die for?
What had it wished for in its hour of need?
What face haunted its dreams?

There are far too many questions.

Buried in innocence it was.
Buried in curiosity it is.
Buried in earth it shall be.

The baby:
cold
and blue
and dead.

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