“A fine work of art indeed,
All the intricate details,
Carved in calcium carbonate,
Scalpel and chip wasted away,
To conjure a still story. Made –
By the virtuoso Angelo, you say? –
well, what does it mean?”
“Why,” the Curator explains,
“Surely you are not the first
Nor will you be the last, to ask so.
We often puzzled over the tale
Lying behind this queer statue.
It seems to resemble a flower-head
Her petals yet unfurled fully, though
The queer thing is the little specks
Bursting from the heart of the flower,
Pollen of some sort, escaping
The lustre lure of the lilliputian lily.”
The Keen Observer stands in examination
And scrutinisation, of this masterpiece.
Time lingers as the petrified fragrance of the flower,
As the Observer ponders the meaning of this.
“It would seem to me, that this sculpter
Has delivered in the most gentle manner, the meaning
Of leaving and cleaving, or so ideally to speak.
And in this one art, we see,
The lighted splint that is the flow’r
Gives away her offspring;
Once held in little cells, the hour
Has come, to heed the wind
Every thing the speck remembered
Will be thus forgot;
Even memories of their embers
By cooling, must rot.
See the wind comes hither
See the season gather
All whose hearts yearn to be free
From the shackles of the past
Lay it there and back to dust
All the pain will turn;
Know the soil that breeds your hope
Lies over the horizon.“
The Curator nods his head in fervent agreement.
“Something says, in my heart, that your words
Have not meaninglessness; well done, and many thanks,
You have lightened the burden of this mystery
Upon my mind.”