On a hand-hewn pedestal
on milk-white face alight
eyes sparkled with a liquid flame.
Some build ivory towers,
their hands raw from driven labour,
on scratched cheeks, a stricken eye
ransoms a sculpted orphan dream.
Across time and the Middle Sea
another calloused hand chiselled;
laughter on a pine-white face
resurrected an ailing heart.
Some can only imagine
what others have without trying;
when vicarious journeys fail,
reality's block they will assail.
(A sort of raison d'etre definition for the artist's creation,
drawing from both the stories of Pygmalion and Geppetto.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem