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I was fourteen when I cradled you in my not much more than infant arms,

wrapped you in linen cloth,

fed you with my own life force.

Rich men came and brought gifts fit for a king.

Who knew that the swaddling cloth would herald a shroud,

the myrrh would point to your embalming?

Later I lost you for a while,

hollow burning hunger of fear gnawing at my heart...
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