She was only for years old,
when she became the show,
a specticle,
a whimsicle,
a lie down and blow.
She was only six years old,
when the pain began to go,
but the motions they had slowed,
as she smiled and let go.
Her hair as black as crow,
and her skin a radient glow,
but her hands strong to hold,
and her story never told.
And flat on her back she goes,
resting on her plateau,
of silence made of gold.
Her name was Snow.
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