The maiden heart now covered with lace,
powder and rouge line her face.
Time’s cruel touch hobbles her grace.
The matron steps back, to find her new place.

Inside her breast beats a heart that is young.
With so many songs still left unsung.
Her wisdom ignored by those she’s among,
The plans she made, dust covered. Undone.

She wanders alone in the crowded room.
Hearing faint laughter, remembering a tune.
She never noticed the passing of June,
And winter, it seems, has come too soon.