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I saw a child playing there,
among the gravestones of the dead,
Killing butterflies without care,
By crushing their delightful heads.
And laughing as it flew away,
The one she could not yet secure,
Alive and colourful in the day,
Pursued by danger from the pure,
For innocence is cruel and cold,
And gentle in its deadly act,
For gripped within her soothing hold,
The butterfly was soon attacked,
Its gauzy wings with love destroyed,
The broken body to the ground deployed.
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