Pressed up against the glass
I found myself wanting sympathy
But to be consumed again
Oh I know wouldn’t be
The death of me
And there is a love that’s inherently given
A kind of blindeness offered to appease
And in that light of forbidden joy
Oh I know I won’t receive it.
When all we wanted was the dream,
To have and to hold
That precious little thing,
Like every generation yields
A newborn hope unjaded
By their years.

–Sarah McLachlan

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