I observe the ancient wonder
An old music box,
Whose shell is enclosed in aged mahogany.

The innards contain dissimilar gears and cogs
***** by rust laid out by Father Time,
In his endless cycle.

The scarred ballerina
Her painted flesh corroding to a dust.
I witness the aging ballerina
In her endless German Waltz.

Yet the music, still pure,
As if the music fixes this artifact
As if it was her.