On Alterations

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Some will tell you to choose your path with care—
For this may be the last dress you wear.
Do not put credence in such dark advice,
For those who say it cannot know the price
Of cold years lived in tattered raiment.
They don’t count the cost, but see the payment.
We who wear our ripe flesh lightly must stress:
A woman always finds another dress.
Woven, spun, knitted, in toga or sheath,
We must to our daughters this lace bequeath:
From ashes, fire or dust we still create,
To thus re-stitch our selves, souls, lives and fate.
The long work of mending cannot be put down,
But Love, you will always have another gown.

Truth or Consequences -- Against the Coryphaeus

Born to Burn