But as the snow fell on the red her silky form rose from the dead
And floated through the woods as though her weave was white as Christmas snow.
The pale gown then, grown grey with time and missing her once weary shine,
Pulled her ribbons tight until she thought that they would fight her still.
The black bereft of blood-stained boughs faded from the morning rows
And burrowed deep beneath the earth where none could search for her true worth.
And there we stay – we 3 young gowns, we 3 young girls – all satin bound
In dresses sewn too long ago for any girl to never know.
For heaven knows, for all we’ve done, for every garment we’ve become,
for all that fabric so much paler – all we need is one great tailor.