Eighty-three years from now,
A tired old woman in her bed
Will be about to meet death.
Me? A faded face in a photo by then,
And yet the maker of her faith.
I hold her tight in my arms today.
Tomorrow she turns eight.
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Eighty-three years from now,
A tired old woman in her bed
Will be about to meet death.
Me? A faded face in a photo by then,
And yet the maker of her faith.
I hold her tight in my arms today.
Tomorrow she turns eight.