The Sculptor
I am, I suppose, guilty
Of Pygmalion's vice; giving licence
To my eyes - impounding reason,
Reality. This is the truth:
A darkened room, a minor chord,
A handcuffed voice. Downstairs
My weeping statue into whom
The gods breathed life.
Is this Galatea the reward for my prayers?
Create in me a pure heart
That does not crave her kisses
But lives to find a love that passes feeling:
A Truth on which I can depend
And build a faith.
Sanjay
Of Pygmalion's vice; giving licence
To my eyes - impounding reason,
Reality. This is the truth:
A darkened room, a minor chord,
A handcuffed voice. Downstairs
My weeping statue into whom
The gods breathed life.
Is this Galatea the reward for my prayers?
Create in me a pure heart
That does not crave her kisses
But lives to find a love that passes feeling:
A Truth on which I can depend
And build a faith.
Sanjay
Labels: poetry