I know a little white cross, somewhere in France
The grave of a little boy, in the meadows he used to prance
Come to me my child; sit at my knee
Let me mother you, as I once did, the day you opened your eyes: that long ago January
You loved the white roses, but you got poppies
My little boy who loved the rain
And now on his grave snow has lain
Whose gray eyes looked up at a blue sky
But under a gray sky, he died
Who wished for cap and gown, instead of khaki and gun
Oh my little white cross, among rows and rows of others,
Belonging to mother and sister and brother and father
Many of the crosses reside in the hearts of others
But one is enough for me,
My little white cross
-Kiana Baghban