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Innocence Through McCracken's leafy lane the children run, unaware of what stands in front of them. They are too young to understand The worries and troubles that lay ahead.
To them life is a joyous event, A time of pleasure and laughter, A time to forget the past that is wrapped in the present, And a time to look with shallow eyes, willingly at the future.
We must not awaken them from their dreams, For, like the lane, theirs is a peaceful world, Meandering in gentleness, Straight but somehow twisted in their silent innocence.
An innocence broken only by a fleeting glance into the future, An occasional swear word, An occasional mistrustful look Or the harsh necessity of physical contact.
McCluskey, like McCracken's has seen it all before. The silent minority changing into the unquenchable majority, Thriving in indolence and obdurate stubboness, Rounding on loneliness and despair.
I walk amongst them once more, And my mind turns back to a time I walked those self same woods In unconscious innocence.
How could anybody walking those calm, peaceful haunts, Envisage any other world but this, Any other place or time. How can one transgress from innocence to knowledge in this way?
Some day too soon, without knowing They will realise what it is they have done, Then there will be no turning back, no time to reflect Because like so many before them they will have found that Life has caught up with them.
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