Children do not wave as we drive out.
Like these graves ours may go unmarked.

The voices of those children, that is the voice of the immense future.

Families go and begin to disguise their children as witches. This is contrary to our way,

A mother's arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.

The sublimest song to be heard on earth is the lisping of the human soul on the lips of children

All memory resolves itself in gaze.