Fashionista Pidgin Dolls版本V1 (ID: 1262940)

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In a crooked shop at the city’s edge,
Where cobblestones crack and lanterns dredge,
A dollmaker worked through the hush of night,
Crafting her beauties by flickering light.

Each doll was a marvel, a delicate muse,
With glassy eyes of sapphire hues.
Their lips, though silent, seemed poised to speak,
Their porcelain cheeks both smooth and sleek.

But whispers flew through the narrow lanes:
“Beware her craft, for her dolls are chains.”
They said she carved with a blade so fine,
It sliced through threads of the soul’s design.

One day a stranger, cloaked in despair,
Entered her shop with a thousand-yard stare.
“I’ve lost my love; no art can replace,”
She offered her heart to regain his face.

The dollmaker paused, her chisel mid-air,
Her own dark past a shadow laid bare.
But greed’s sharp edge overtook her doubt—
She’d craft his likeness and snuff sorrow out.

The doll was perfect, the spellwork profound,
But the stranger wept as his joy unwound.
For the doll, though flawless, could only stay still,
Its heart was a void, its gaze a cold thrill.

At midnight, they say, the dolls come alive,
But their hollow souls can never revive.
They wander her shop with a porcelain grace,
Forever in search of a human embrace.

So beware the beauty that tempts you too near,
The dollmaker’s curse thrives on longing and fear.
For a heart in a doll is a heart that won’t beat,
And love, once carved, is never complete.

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