Issues of the Journal
03 July, 2017
The funeral cortege is miles long.
It winds slowly through the streets of London in dead silence.
Millions line the pavements with heads bowed.
As each Black Herse slowly passes,
you can see the names of children
picked out in flowers along each small coffin.
Some are tiny, for they contain babies,
while others form lines containing whole families,
who are now no more.
The usual short interlude of respect is here impossible.
The funereal procession seems endless.
The onlookers cannot bear it, crying and wailing breaks out.
People are throwing flowers at the passing cortege.
The perpetrators will be made to pay!
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