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If tears are the children of sorrow, then I now carry a barren womb. For my children lived and died as the cities fell. As the sun and stars were torn out by thick darkness fathered by bombs that proved too weak. As men and children were devoured by unimaginable creatures. Blood ran down the streets like rivers, bodies carried away. I was a little girl, then. Thirteen. A fertile land for agony to plant its twisted seed. If tears are children, then I birthed and buried a generation in days.
