A little sound, a whisper,
From where does it come?
Little voices echoing through the
Halls of time, resounding for those
who choose to listen
Of purity, of innocence, of wonder,
Where imaginations and dreams
Have yet to be stamped out by the
world
Glories missed by many whose ears
Have been shut by the grasp of
condescension
Glories yet unheard in many of our
our own halls of glory
Treasures stored in God's private stash
The voices of children of which the
trees are keen to listen
No one has to teach a child how to
dream
But when teachings and temperance
and logic have done their work,
The vibrant colors once painted across
the sky often fade to gray
Oh! That dreams and innocence and
purity might be preserved!
It is no wonder that God taught us
that we must all become like
children
10-5-13
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