Pink Glass Ballerina

In an empty house, after the war had come.
Once, a little girl’s bed room, still pink, bright.
I hold in my tired hands a music box.
I open it, and a glass ballerina spins and spins,
and delicate melody chimes out.
Such a simple thing a girl treasured.
Perhaps she dreamed of herself spinning on the stage.
Herself magical and adored and light as an angel’s laugh.
The ballerina continues to spin, and the melody chimes,
and it fills with a cold, melancholy peace, a reminder of
what this world once could be, that it wasn’t always what it became.


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