I’m a music box ballerina; watch me dance and spin. I’m here for your enjoyment in my alabaster skin. With painted smile I’m perfect and my music tinkles on, and you love your ballerina in pink tutu and neat chignon. I keep your pretty baubles, keep safe things that you hold dear; and you watch me dance quite often in your early youth-filled years. You tell me all your secrets; hidden letters of loves - good-byes, and I hold the tears you shed on me when no one could suffice. But time goes by quite swiftly and my skin turns dirty gray; may bun is chipped, my skirt is torn and my music doesn’t play. Your old letters are still hidden here. Your past tears, too, kept inside. But your brand new music box is where your new secrets now reside. I’ve not much time left for me. Music box ballerinas all know this: All are needed only temporary but eventually granted Liss. Closed, forever darkened, they fade away in peace; knowing they’ve performed their best and danced a masterpiece.