Lithe is the ballerina's lucidity
As the violin's language is eloquent
Through a minute's seconds lost in a moment
Oh, How the record must be kept in memory

To be spun in this garden of our axis
Then a new softness begs for the same apple
So that an old grace may sing a new thesis
Some forget to leave the dancer's dreams supple

Because the violin will continue to bend
And the ballerina will spin despite an end
Still, some forget within their pride to ask, "Why?
Does this cursed curiosity outlive its mystery?"

Then you trust in the revolution you chose to record
For this choice was made before, upon your own accord
From her emblazoned toes to her fingers in flight
As sure as a same sound could change, the answer is quite,