The huge black gate
All rusty and frail
Was a temptation
No child can withhold
So he climbed it
With the other urchins
Returning dirty
And injured.
But the flower was
Worth the thorn
And wounds are
Poor mere scratches
They vanish with
Soft water
Like the rub of a nail
Soothed with a kiss
But he must beware
Of deeper wounds
That may reach his heart
Sealing an indelible scar
That may not heal anon.
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