Hands of the Sculptor
Carved from a Stone
Found near the oldest mountains
Where our fathers once lived
In the highest valleys green
With the shades of wild flowers
Yellow,Pink,Purple, Red and Lavender
Where Sun's shine always reveled
And its setting hue lasts an eternity
The Stone was plain
unattractive to the human eye
Bland, and Grey
The Years showed on its skin
Like the face of the Elder
Who for a lifetime toiled in the Fields
Under the scorching sun
Why would the Sculptor choose such stone?
Its Imperfections proved to be its beauty
So different in many ways
He began to slowly chip away
The stroke of the hammer echoed through
The Halls of the Heaven
Not Noise.... but like music
Played by Hands of God
As the Sweat trickled down his brow
He smiled as a child would when praised
The Stone was taking shape
His guided hands was creating a masterpiece
Never before seen by Man
He remember the unsightly mass
Left alone in the valley
Forgotten and Despised by Human eyes
Again He struck with Chisel against the stone
As sparks flied
As shooting stars
He made his wish
Beauty is everywhere
If only man could open its heart and see
To appreciate the neglected
To turn a fist to a helping hand
If this takes me a lifetime
The Sculptor said
I will not waste one stroke of time
Fleeing seconds follows by minutes
Then hours by days to Years
I will finish this masterpiece
whether here on this earth or in the heavens
Its Image will be made Clear
This is a majestic panorama of a poem; one of the best I have ever read.
good write here
I love the generational feel to this one. Brings to mind great stories of history. Great write.
The skill of the sculptor is in perceiving what the rough stone conceals and removing the excess