They are beautiful in their simpleness,
Sleepy-eyed maidens forever waiting
Patiently for the story to begin.

Hands folded, upturned faces
Breath expectant,

The frail girls of fairytale
Have finished the dishes,
Folded back the beds, put out
The fires, waited drowsy
By the hearth for hours

Days even,
Chaste until their skin is dull,
Ash in their hair, smoke in their heart.
Their hands have blackened now,
And they smile even still,
But less and less,

These charred dolls of memory,
Still vigilant statues,
Still the same tale.