who among us ever was with better dreams
than those who followed in the footsteps of a father,
a girl of nothing more than seventeen
saw it fit to be the best she could, a daughter,

she held fast she’d be a soldier for the King,
in a country where the sun was often cold,
she had hopes beyond the mountain brook and spring,
to which we knew her sudden death was unforetold.

so as we carve some kind of meaning out of life,
knowing how the best are here and then are gone,
it seems so sickly to believe there’s good in strife
if hopes of hers were never really sine qua non.

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