With a slow creak the brown oak exposed

her rosy little face; her young bliss beaming

She bolted down the antique stairs

Glancing back she grinned once to her mother

Then ran to board the glossy yellow bus

She rode that bus straight to the gates of heaven

Which opened up for twenty tiny souls 

Their shining, glowing faces are now lifeless

They look down with love upon their families

Weeping can be heard behind their doors

Doors which will not open more each morning

Her little heart will never be forgotten