My November
girl is a special kind of girl. She says what's in her heart; she
does not think and decide. She is trusting, she is loving, she is
innocent, she is a child.
I warned her
against being vulnerable, I said that you are not ready or willing to
understand; but she would not listen. She is wilfully; headstrong.
She is trusting. She had been put away for so long, she just wanted
to come out and play and say what's on her mind.
She pestered
me and pestered me, the way children do so, against my better
judgement, I let her out to play. She become happy, animated; she
couldn't contain her excitement, just like a child. I was happy for
her, my beautiful, my special child.
But then
came December, and cold wind blow from all directions. My child was
naked, so she froze, caught a chill and died.
I grieve for
my November baby; melancholy is in my heart.
The moral of
the story is don't be too trusting; you are liable to die.
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