THE MUSIC BOX:

The wood hewn, nails driven, piece by tiny piece,

Sun up, sun down, with moon, he doesn´t cease,

With velvet gently laid & mirrored glass in place,

The small ballerina, pirouetting in delicate lace.

 

Grizzled sad carpenter, with old calloused fingers,

Making music boxes, where his memory lingers,

In every ballerina, of soul, he instills a little part,

And within her tiny breast, therein beats his heart.

 

Of his love, in each box, he leaves a sharded piece,

Lid lifted, the dancer spins, to music sweet released,

He recalls his long-gone love, of lost youthful moons,

As she dances, at his touch, to unforgettable tunes.