Like the dainty first hint of a piroutte
a poised ballerina begins to make.
Our lives as baby sisters began her first turn
expressing her grace, ribbons floating in her wake.

Until the ballad took on an increasing tempo
years began to flash by.
Our lives began to blur, as the face and figure
of our spinning performer.

There is naught we can do about the fast passing
of our live's ballad.
But we do have one another,
you see, to capture the moment, to share, to hold.

For it is impossible to make
every moment a memory, yet, mine of you are dear.
Each person we touch in life,has a place special within us,
like baskets of flowers collected at yonder door,
a great wealth.

But when it comes to sisters in love,
there is a single treasured memory flower.
It blossomed in our youth, unknown,
fed by our splended joys,wept in sorrow.

'Tis not a banner we wear each day,
nor a horn we blast by the hour,
It's as soft and subtle as a baby's breath,
while it's hidden strength bonds us forever.