Children who die are not really
gone,
But go to a place that is something like
home,
Where they sleep the deep sleep, as quiet as
stone,
Until we can join them when our lives are
done.
Children who die are not really
dead,
But just like good children tucked into
bed,
Wait the long wait while we go ahead
Till our tales are all told and our tears are all
shed.
Children who die feel no pleasure or
pain
In the place where they wait till they see us
again,
And all of us dance in a world washed with
rain
Where the sun shines so brightly no sorrows
remain.