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The Last Lullaby

Eventually, I stroke her cheek; it is porcelain-smooth, and cold. I marvel at the slight tilt of her chin and the way her nose turns up, just like mine. The frost has made stars in her eyes and within them I see God. Her bones and lungs are still now; she will know neither fear nor pain. She was born as the warning sirens wailed, and I gently took away her breath when the sky began to burn. I lie on the hard ground and wrap her tiny, frozen body inside my coat. The ash falls like snow, covering us both.



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