At this festive time of year, who will remember the children, born too quietly, who grow, unnoticed, among us, motionless, giving neither trouble, nor joy: soft-eyed, soft-skinned children, transparent, flesh hinting at traces of blue vein; obedient children, who never answer back -- who never answer, at all. You have not seen them. Look around you: they are here. Unchaperoned and unremarked, they settle among us like cool November, a peripheral gleam, almost seen, not quite forgotten. Remember, now, the creatures of neither Creator, who never, quite, exist, and yet are here, among us. At this, festive, time of year, do not forget their unresponding eyes, or their dreamless, winter vision. They are here, among us, and they are aware of our passing.