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Electrifying bullets fly–fatal and fast.
A veiled woman falls.
Footsteps do not slow
even as the baby squirms in her arms
trying to breathe free from her
tightening, dying clutches.

They both lie in the mid-morning heat.
Overturned carts and abandoned bicycles
litter the lifeless street.

The square is silent and smells of a red brown
trickle rust across the ground.

Her name meant Grace.
His name was Noah.

They fly to the pearly gates only to find further cages.

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