The sculptor
A block of stone,
Unseen, unknown.
Kicked around,
Of no use,
To no one.
He takes it up,
He sees potential
He sees things,
You and I cannot,
He sees.
He takes a chisel,
He takes a hammer,
He chips some here,
He chips some there,
He chips what he can see.
He chips off the not needed,
Keeping what is needed,
Needed by whom?
The underlying form
In his head.
Slowly, from a block
An image arises,
An image in his head
Transferred by him,
By his tools.
He saw a goddess
Riding her tiger.
He saw her inside
The stone
You and I did.
How can he see,
Things we cannot?
Things we are blind to,
Are visible to him
To his eyes alone.
Are we blind,
Not to see beauty,
Lying beneath the surface
Are we oblivious
If it is not obvious?
26th December 2007