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Where have you gone, I ask again; my memories now lost.
They stole you, hid you, while I slept—a ransom without cost.
Your photos burned, your words destroyed, your voice I can’t replay.
The distance grows between us now, increasing with each day.
I want to see and talk with you; they tell me that I can’t.
I long to feel warm in your arms, the comfort of your hands.
I cry, I call, I wish, I pray, convinced that it’s in vain.
It’s for your good, they justify; they cannot see the pain.
Let us go down to make a home wherein our children dwell.
A garden fresh to please the heart and wondrous fragrance smell
And let us make them just like us, he you and she like me.
Then give them choice, watch them partake; the truth shall make them free.
I’ll visit them when they have left, “Behold, my b’loved son.”
But I’ll retreat with broken heart when he gasps, “It is done.”
I’ll touch their hearts; speak to their souls, comfort them and guide.
I’ll reach past chains and gags and locks, with every ounce I’ll try.
I do not think you’d leave me here, abandoned and alone.
I’m sure your captors have you gagged upon your vaulted throne.
The words you once had spoke to us, they’ve long since now destroyed.
They make up myths to convince us, your absence a decoy.
They put you on a pedestal to keep you out of reach.
Protect your name, or so they say; your purity they bleach.
But you are strong and wise and brave, far from a maiden fair.
And heart and soul and spirit shout that I’ve a mother there.
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