A Rondeau for all the lost children

April 28, 2011
Hurry home, child
out of that night, wild.
Back to your family growing old;
freezing up with fear, cold.
Come back to us, child.

The world out there is not mild.
It's cruel out there, vile.
You're safest in your mother's hold;
hurry home, child.

How far are you, a hundred miles?
Worse, are you in a starving style?
Your picture's on the news, I'm told.
They found your body, bloodless and cold.
Please, don't let it be true child!
Hurry home, child.

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